LIBRARY* 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

DAVIS 


OR, 


PEN     PAINTINGS 


OF 


TILLAGE    LIFE 


BY  GEO.  CANNING  HILL. 


BOSTON: 
CROWN      &      CO. 

(  PHILADELPHIA  : 
J.   W.    BRADLEY,    48    NORTH    FOURTH    STREET.  / 

1857. 


LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

DAVTS 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1654,  by 

L.   P.   CROWN   AND    COMPANY, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


STEREOTYPED    AT    THE 
BOSTON      STEREOTYPE      FOUNDRY, 


PREFACE 


I  OFFER  you,  dear  reader,  only  humble  chronicles. 
They  are  of  the  quiet  and  still  life  of  a  country 
parish.  I  have  set  them  down  without  any  attempt 
at  fine  writing,  trusting  to  nothing  more  than  their 
truthfulness  and  simplicity  to  interest  you. 

You  will  find  in  these  pages  the  observations 
of  one  whose  walk  has  been  for  a  long  time  in 
rustic  quietudes  —  among  those  earnest  and  sincere 
souls  that  gather,  every  Sabbath,  in  simple  country 
churches.  You  will  find,  too,  as  you  read  on,  that 
human  hearts  are  essentially  the  same  under  all 
conditions — the  same  motives,  whether  of  ambition, 
love,  selfishness,  or  hatred,  swaying  them  within  the 
precincts  of  a  village  circle  as  within  the  walls  of 
a  wealthy  and  populous  town. 

(3) 


4  PREFACE. 

Whatever  may  be  the  moral  of  the  whole,  the 
sympathizing  reader  will  find  it  stamped  plainly 
enough  on  every  page.  If,  however,  any  one  feeling 
is  intentionally  inculcated  above  any  other,  it  is 
that  of  love  one  for  another.  Without  this  there 
is  no  charity ;  and  without  charity  we  are  destitute 
of  all  the  virtues  that  are  really  worth  possessing. 

That  the  book  may  succeed  in  awakening  the 
interest  of  even  a  few,  and,  still  further,  in  warming 
ever  so  little  the  better  natures  of  all,  is  the  single 
and  sincere  wish  of 

THE  AUTHOR. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER   I. 
THE  STAGE  COACH,        .       .       ."•;., 


CHAPTER  II. 
DEACON  BURROUGHS'  FAMILY 20 

CHAPTER  IIL 
THE  MEN  OF  BROOKBORO', 31 

CHAPTER  IV. 


THE  FIRST  SABBATH, 


CHAPTER  V. 
REMINISCENCES, 53 

CHAPTER  VI. 
MISS  BUSS, ,.    .  .71 

CHAPTER  VTL 


THE  DEAD  BOY 

(5) 


6  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
THE  SEWING  SOCIETY  OF  OUR  PAEISH  .....         94 

CHAPTER  IX. 
A  TALK  WITH  THE  FAKMEK,         .......       107 

CHAPTER  X. 
AT  BROTHER  NED'S,  .....       120 

CHAPTER  XI. 
ORDINATION  DAY,         .       .........       133 

CHAPTER  XII. 
THE  MINISTER'S  WIFE,       ...  .....       144 


CHAPTER 
PARISH  OPINIONS,        ..........       155 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
GOING  TO  HOUSEKEEPING,      ........       165 

CHAPTER  XV. 
THE  HEART  OF  A  CREDITOR  ........       175 

CHAPTER  XYI. 
ONLY  FAMILY  MATTERS,         .       .       ......       187 

CHAPTER  XVIE. 
A  COUNTRY  WEDDING,       ....  ....       196 

CHAPTER  XVin. 
TWO  IN  HEAVEN,          .  ......  .207 


CONTENTS. 
CHAPTER  XIX. 


ZACK,  THE  (HOPPLE,    ..... 
CHAPTER  XX. 


THE  CONSUMPTIVE,      .       .       .      J£ 833 

CHAPTER  XXI. 
THE  BUND  GIRL, 847 

CHAPTER  XXTL 
THINGS  IN  GENERAL 856 

CHAPTER  XXTTT. 
THE  DEATH  OF  A  FATHER, *  .  .  867 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 
OUR  SINGING  SCHOOL,  .  .  .  . 881 

CHAPTER  XXV. 
A  ROADSIDE  HOSE, 289 

CHAPTER  XXVI. 
A  SICK  BOOM  AND  ITS  LESSONS,  *i|  \  ...  309 

CHAPTER  XXVIE. 
AN  OLD  FRIEND  IN  A  NEW  CHARACTER,  ....  817 

CHAPTER  XXVm. 


THANKSGIVING, 


CHAPTER  X.XTX. 
AN  AWAKENING, 337 


8  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  XXX. 
BROOKBOBO'  WITH  ADDITIONS, 348 

CHAPTER  XXXI. 
THE  OLD  PARSONAGE, 360 

CHAPTER  XXXII. 
A  SCENE  IN  A  BELFRY, 371 

CHAPTER  XXXm. 
A  LITTLE  CLOUD, 383 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 
DISPUTES  AND  DIFFERENCES, 393 

CHAPTER  XXXV. 
THE  RESULT  OF  A  QUARREL, .406 

CHAPTER  XXXVI. 
PASTOR  AND  PEOPLE,        ....  ....       419 

CHAPTER  XXXVII. 
THE  FAREWELL  SERMON 430 

CHAPTER  XXXVLTI. 
DESOLATION, 449 


OUR    PARISH, 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE   STAGE   COACH. 

ON  a  dull  and  dreary  day  in  November,  while  the 
winds  were  shouting  in  their  shrill  voices  from  the  boughs 
of  the  trees  which  they  had  rifled  of  their  leaves,  and 
running  mad  races  along  the  roadsides  and  across  the 
bleak  pastures  and  uplands,  the  stage  coach  was  toiling 
slowly  over  the  New  England  hills  that  heralded  a  little 
village  that  slept  within  their  bosom. 

It  was  already  mid-afternoon.  The  sun  had  been 
obscured  quite  all  the  day,  and  the  atmosphere  was 
heavy  with  the  breaths  of  a  brewing  storm.  Every 
indication  had  been  given  of  the  setting  in  of  an  early 
winter.  The  stubble  lands  along  the  winding  old  country 
roads  looked  bare  and  desolate ;  and  the  trees  that  had, 
only  a  few  weeks  before,  flung  down  dark  and  rich  shad 
ows  over  the  stone  walls,  for  the  comfort  of  the  traveller, 
were  now  denuded  and  shivering. 

(9) 


10  OUR   PARISH. 

The  stage  coach  continued  the  monotonous  creaking  of 
its  leathern  springs,  and  the  same  tiresome  rattle  of  its 
heavy  wheels,  while  ever  and  anon  the  patient  driver 
spoke  his  cheerful  chirrup  to  his  horses,  beguiling  himself 
of  his  tediousness  by  the  snatch  of  a  whistle  or  a  song. 

Within  the  coach  there  were  four  passengers.  One 
of  them  —  with  whom  this  history  will  have  especially  to 
do  —  was  to  appearance  quite  a  young  man,  perhaps 
twenty-four  or  five  years  of  age,  with  a  finely-expressive 
countenance,  and  a  general  bearing  that  had  not  failed  to 
challenge  the  admiration  of  his  fellow-travellers  since  the 
moment  he  became  of  their  number.  The  other  three 
were  of  the  same  sex,  and  appeared  to  be  journeying  on 
beyond  the  village  where  the  coach  was  about  to  halt 
temporarily.  One  of  them  was  an  object  of  special  notice 
and  pity,  inasmuch  as  he  was  a  man  with  a  silvery  head, 
and  appeared  to  be  very  much  intoxicated.  It  was  evi 
dent,  too,  from  the  manners  he  still  labored  to  exhibit, 
that  his  breeding  had  been  much  above  the  standard  he 
had  at  this  time  reached;  some  untoward  accident  of 
fortune,  or  some  strong  and  steady  temptation,  having 
succeeded  in  fastening- the  chain  and  ball  to  his  character, 
which  he  dragged  about  after  him  in  a  weak  and  wea 
risome  way  that  was  even  more  than  pitiful.  The  others 
answered  his  pointless  inquiries,  or  slightingly  acknowl 
edged  his  empty  observations,  sometimes  smiling  at  his 
strange  drollery  in  spite  of  themselves,  yet  always  pitying 
the  sight  of  a  reduced  and  disabled  intellect. 


THE   STAGE   COACH.  11 

The  old  man  had  attempted  conversation  several  times 
with  the  younger  one  whom  I  have  alluded  to,  now  em 
ploying  humor  and  badinage  to  draw  him  out  from  his 
reserve,  and  now  putting  him  inquiries  of  a  direct  nature, 
that  few  men  of  ordinary  civility  would  have  refused  to 
answer. 

It  appeared  that,  during  the  ride,,  the  elder  man  had 
ascertained  from  the  other  that  he  was  a  clergyman ;  more 
than  this,  that  he  was  at  that  time  on  his  way  to  fulfil  an 
engagement  he  had  recently  entered  into  with  a  country 
parish ;  and,  still  more  than  that,  that  the  very  next  village 
to  which  the  stage  coach  would  bring  them  was  the  one 
where  his  services  for  an  entire  year  had  been  secured. 
Forthwith,  therefore,  the  latter  rose  in  the  other's  esteem. 
Despite  the  old  man's  insensibility  to  what  was  due  him 
self,  he  seemed  to  have  an  instinctive  knowledge  of  what 
was,  in  this  case  at  least,  due  to  another,  and  began  to 
show  a  sense  of  respect  one  would  hardly  have  looked 
for  in  a  man  in  just  his  unfortunate  condition. 

"  My  father  was  a  minister,"  finally  broke  out  the  old 
man,  after  he  had  indulged  in  a  long  and  drowsy  pause. 

"  Ah  ! "  exclaimed  the  other ;  "  where  was  he  settled  ?  " 

"Well  —  well,  sir — just  now  I  can't  tell  you;"  all  this 
was  spoken  very  slowly,  and  with  the  greatest  effort  at 
deliberation ;  "  but  'twas  a  good  ways  off  from  here,  I  can 
tell  you.  May  be  you  never  was  in  that  part  of  the 
country." 

"  Very  likely.  But  how  long  has  he  been  dead  ? "  he 
continued,  growing  interested  in  the  confession. 


12  OUR   PARISH. 

"It's  —  it's  full  twenty  years,  sir,"  answered  the  old 
man.  "  You  was  nothing  more  than  a  baby  when  he  died. 
/  was  a  trifle  younger  than  I  am,  too.  I  wasn't  exactly 
what  you  see  me  now,  neither." 

A  misty  memory  seemed  to  swim  over  the  surface  of 
his  heart,  and  he  felt  that  tears  were  sailing  about  in  his 
eyes.  But  the  memory  had  much  of  light  braided  in  with 
its  darker  colors,  for  it  gave  him  quite  as  much  joy  as 
sadness  to  live  it  over  again.  He  went  on,  partly  in  a 
half  soliloquy,  and  some  of  the  time  looking  the  young 
clergyman  in  the  face. 

"Yes,  my  poor  father's  dead  —  dead!  I  sometimes 
think  I  helped  shorten  his  days  for  him,  for  he  wanted  me 
to  follow  the  same  calling  he  had  chosen.  Me! — just 
look  at  it  —  and  here  I  am  !  No,  no,  sir ;  it  was  a  lucky 
thing  that  I  never  was  guilty  of  disgracing  not  only  my 
self,  but  that  profession  besides.  I  should  have  had  every 
thing  to  answer  for  —  more  than  I  feel  I've  got  now." 

"  You  have  been  in  some  business,  I  conclude  ?  "  asked 
the  clergyman,  pitying  him  more  than  ever. 

"  Business  ?  0,  yes,  sir ;  that's  what  I  have.  I  may 
say  —  I  may  say  I've  done  business  enough  to  —  well,  to 
make  two  men  just  as  rich  as  four  ought  to  be.  By  riches 
I  don't  mean  any  thing  but  enough  to  put  a'  man's  family 
beyond  the  want  of  what's  needful,  and  comfortable,  and 
so  on.  But  some  people  have  a  way  of  keeping  their 
money  that  others  haven't  got ;  and  I  wasn't  one  of  that 
kind  ever  that  could  hold  on,  and  hold  on,  when  there's  so 
many  ways  for  a  man  to  do  good  with  his  money." 


THE   STAGE    COACH.  13 

He  paused  to  recall  the  past  a  little. 

"  You  may  think  I  was  reckless ;  perhaps  you  do,  seeing 
me  to-day.  But  that  wasn't  what  swamped  me.  I  got  in 
with  a  dishonest  partner,  and  I  very  soon  saw  the  end  of 
my  hopes.  My  nature,  you  see,  never  was  very  suspicious ; 
so  I  let  him  have  pretty  much  his  own  way,  gave  up  to 
him  in  every  thing,  made  a  great  confidant  of  him,  told 
him  all  my  plans,  how  much  I  was  worth,  and  every  thing 
else  any  scheming  villain  could  have  wanted  to  know;  and 
at  last  he  got  hold  of  the  handle  of  the  whip,  as  they  say,  and 
fairly  scourged  me  out  of  my  own  doors.  And  here  I  am  ! " 

The  confession  interested  the  others  no  less  than  the 
young  clergyman.  They  could  not  naturally  help  feeling  a 
deep  sympathy  for  one  in  his  situation,  while  the  dark  fear 
chased  suddenly  over  their  hearts  that  possibly,  in  the 
undisclosed  course  of  events,  they  might  be  sucked  into 
just  such  another  whirlpool,  and  in  their  turn  involuntarily 
challenge  the  same  feelings  of  sympathy  they  now  so 
freely  bestowed. 

"  Have  you  no  family?"  asked  the  clergyman. 

"  Heaven  help  them,  if  I  have ! "  returned  the  old  man, 
with  evident  agitation.  "  Poor  Mary's  gone  home  to  her 
rest !  She's  beyond  the  reach  of  want  or  woe.  I  had  two 
children  ;  but " 

He  could  not  go  on,  but  plunged  his  eyes  out  upon  the 
ground,  and  fell  into  a  revery  of  sadness. 

"  Poor  man !  "  was  the  mental  ejaculation  of  every  one 
in  the  coach. 


14  OUR   PARISH. 

The  two  other  men  exchanged  glances,  and  slowly  shook 
their  heads.  The  clergyman  threw  his  eyes  out  of  the 
coach  window,  and  began  to  observe  the  appearance  of  the 
country  through  which  he  was  riding. 

It  was  many  years  ago,  this  afternoon  scene  in  Novem 
ber,  in  the  good  old  sociable  days  of  stage  coaches,  and  of 
cheery  country  inns,  crowded  full  with  comforts  for  travel 
lers,  and  of  pleasant  and  chatty  drivers.  The  screech  of 
the  steam  whistle  had  not  yet  sent  its  wild  echoes  into  the 
hollows  of  the  hills  to  frighten  the  rural  deities  from  their 
abodes  by  the  brooks  and  in  the  woods ;  neither  was  the 
roar  and  the  rattle  of  the  dark,  snake-like  train  to  be  heard 
along  on  the  mountain  sides,  and  in  the  deep  gorges,  and 
across  the  smiling  meadows.  People  journeyed  by  days' 
marches,  as  it  were,  without  the  haste  and  recklessness  that 
characterize  the  present  times,  and  —  I  am  very  much 
given  to  thinking — with  a  more  wholesome  and  healthy 
sense  of  the  pleasure  of  travelling.  Yet  these  contrasts 
between  this  and  the  old  time  may  not  be  profitable, 
after  all. 

But  the  former  customs  were  so  much  in  vogue,  at  the 
time  this  history  begins,  that  there  was  fixed  an  ancient 
stage  horn  at  the  side  of  the  driver's  box,  which  he  pres 
ently  took  from  its  socket,  and  commenced  blowing  with  all 
his  might,  to  apprise  those  at  the  next  inn  that  he  was 
coming  up  as  fast  as  he  could.  And,  to  make  good  his 
notes  of  announcement,  he  swung  his  long  lash  twice  or 
thrice  over  the  heads  of  his  jaded  horses,  and  finally 


THE   STAGE   COACH.  15 

brought  out  from  the  end  of  it,  with  a  notable  jerk,  one 
of  the  clearest,  smacking  cracks  that  ever  sent  its  echoes 
down  among  the  hollows  of  any  hills.  The  horses  made  a 
fresh  start,  and  ran  rapidly  through  the  little  ravine,  and 
up  the  next  hill  before  them. 

"  We  are  near  our  next  stopping-place,"  remarked  one 
of  the  travellers. 

The  young  clergyman  felt  the  force  of  the  remark  in 
full.  It  would  be  a  stopping-place  indeed  for  him  —  of  a 
far  different  character  than  to  those  who  would  wait  only 
for  a  cold  bite  of  meat  or  pie  and  the  operation  of  changing 
horses.  Here  he  was  to  begin  his  work  in  the  world. 
Here  he  was  to  establish  himself,  by  labor  and  piety,  by- 
love  and  good  works,  until  he  should  feel  that  he  had 
reaped  all  the  harvest  that  was  ripe  for  his  sickle. 

It  was  a  thoughtful  mood  into  which  he  at  once  relapsed, 
as  the  coach  bore  him  swiftly  forward ;  during  which  he 
ran  over  in  his  mind  all  the  prospects  and  probabilities,  all 
the  hopes  and  fears,  the  trials  and  the  delights,  of  his  oncom 
ing  career,  and  tried  to  imagine  the  natures  with  which  his 
heart  would  daily  be  called  into  contact,  and  to  read  in 
advance  the  pages  of  the  history  that  was  not  yet  opened, 
and  silently  prayed  that  he  might  never  falter  nor  fail,  but 
stoutly  carry  forward  the  banner  he  had  received,  till  called 
on  to  surrender  all  his  trust  at  the  beck  of  the  pale  mes 
senger  who  will  summon  us  all  in  turn  away. 

His  thoughts  were  not  sad  nor  heavy,  yet  they  imposed 
a  feeling  of  responsibility  upon  his  heart  that  made  his  lips 


16  OUR   PARISH. 

dumb.  He  felt  the  aid  of  courage,  for  it  was  given  him 
of  Heaven ;  yet  the  courage  was  strangely  mixed  with  a 
sense  of  fear  and  shrinking,  that  kept  his  heart  in  a  state 
not  unlike  that  of  disquietude.  Should  he  do  all  that 
Heaven  required  of  one  who  had  enlisted  for  life  in  the 
service  ?  Would  the  moments  never  steal  into  the  daily 
life  when  the  high  purposes,  the  Christian  resolutions,  the 
yearning  desires  would  be  blighted  temporarily  with  irres 
olution,  or  faintheartedness,  or  perhaps  despair  ?  Would 
his  feelings  never  sicken,  and  his  strength  never  give  out, 
when  he  saw  himself  standing  alone  in  the  vineyard,  and 
all  his  fellow-laborers  lounging  idly  about  in  the  very  heat 
of  the  day  ? 

Even  the  most  trustful  and  devoted  man  might  well  ask 
himself  these  questions ;  for  humanity  is  but  weak  in  its 
greatest  strength,  and  often  staggers  and  falters  when  the 
path  is  open  to  aid. 

From  this  train  of  thought  he  was  roused  at  last  by  the 
drawing  up  of  the  coach  before  the  inn  door.  The  driver 
jumped  down  from  his  box,  and  acquainted  the  inside  with 
the  fact  that  they  could  get  refreshments  here  while  the 
horses  were  changing. 

The  young  clergyman  —  who  should  by  this  time  be 
known  as  Mr.  Humphreys  —  alighted,  saw  to  the  getting 
off  of  his  baggage,  paid  his  fare,  and  went  into  the  house. 
The  landlord  welcomed  him,  no  less  than  the  others,  within 
his  doors,  asking  them  if  they  would  like  any  thing  to  eat. 
Pushing  into  an  inner  room,  spacious  and  cheerful,  with 


THE   STAGE   COACH.  17 

one  of  the  pleasantest  fires  imaginable  burning  on  the 
hearth,  they  gathered  around  the  blaze,  and  inwardly  con 
gratulated  themselves  on  so  comfortable  quarters  being 
within  their  reach. 

The  old  man  did  not  come  in  at  all;  whether  from  a 
feeling  of  loneliness,  that  had  betrayed  itself  in  the  latter 
part  of  his  conversation,  or  from  a  sense  of  shame  inherent 
in  his  nature,  could  not  readily  be  determined. 

An  elderly  gentleman  was  busily  inspecting  the  baggage 
that  was  laid  on  the  porch,  and  studying  over  and  over 
again  the  initials,  "  W.  H.,"  as  if  they  might  have  some 
intimate  relation  to  his  business. 

Seized  with  the  idea  that  he  could  not  be  wrong,  he 
hastened  within  the  house,  and  accosted  the  landlord  in  a 
low  voice :  — 

"Do  you  know  whether  one  of  the  gentlemen  in  the 
other  room  is  Mr.  Humphreys  ?  " 

"  Wai,  no,  I  don't,"  said  the  other.  « Is't  the  new  minis 
ter  you're  expectin',  deacon  ?  " 

"  Yes.  One  trunk  is  marked  W.  H.  I  think  that  must 
belong  to  Mr.  Humphreys." 

"  Like  enough.     If  it  does,  he's  in  the  other  room." 

"  Which  one  is  he  ?     Can  you  tell  ?  " 

"  I  guess  I  can,  deacon.     Come,  and  I'll  show  you." 

So  the  obliging  host  opened  the  door,  and,  after  looking 
over  the.  faces  and  persons  of  the  three  individuals  carefully, 
finally  remarked  to  the  deacon  that  the  one  in  the  corner 
was  the  man  who  owned  the  trunk  marked  "  W.  H." 
2 


18  OUR   PARISH. 

Deacon  Burroughs  entered  the  room,  and  advanced 
towards  him,  holding  out  his  hand. 

"  Mr.  Humphreys  —  is  this  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  clergyman,  rising,  and  offering  to 
take  the  proffered  hand. 

"  My  name  is  Burroughs." 

"  Ah,  Deacon  Burroughs  ! "  exclaimed  Mr.  Humphreys, 
a  look  of  gladness  breaking  out  over  his  fine  face.  "I 
have  had  a  correspondence  with  you,  and  certainly  ought 
to  feel  somewhat  acquainted  with  you.  I  am  very  glad 
indeed  to  become  personally  acquainted." 

And  they  shook  hands  heartily,  the  deacon  replying  to 
the  compliment  in  his  own  honest  way. 

"  Come,  now  !  "  said  the  latter ;  "just  as  soon  as  you  get 
warm,  we're  going  straight  to  my  house.  /  shall  take  care 
of  you  for  the  present.  I  hope  you  will  feel  satisfied  with 
what  little  we  can  do  to  make  you  comfortable." 

Mr.  Humphreys  said  he  did  not  doubt  that  he  should  be 
made  both  comfortable  and  happy. 

"Then  you  just  sit  down  again,"  added  the  deacon, 
"  while  I  run  out  and  bring  round  my  horse.  Your  trunks 
shall  be  put  in  the  wagon  at  once ;  and  when  I  come  back, 
all  will  be  ready.  We  can  talk  a  little  as  we  go  along." 

And  Deacon  Burroughs  bowed  his  way  out  of  the  room, 
while  the  young  clergyman  resumed  his  warm  corner  at 
the  hearth. 

In  a  few  minutes  he  rose  to  join  his  new  friend,  and 
wished  hia  companions  good  day  and  a  pleasant  journey 


THE   STAGE    COACH.  19 


forward.  He  stood  in  the  door,  ready  to  get  into  the 
vehicle. 

Some  one  touched  his  arm  from  behind.  He  looked 
I  round,  and  observed  the  old  man,  his  travelling  companion. 

"  I  hope  you'll  do  well  here,"  said  the  old  man,  in  a  half 

I  whisper,  as  if  he  would  be  confidential  a  little.     "  I  haven't 

seen  the  man  in  a  long  time  I  wanted  to  know  so  much  as 

"  I  do  you.     You  make  me  think  of  other  days.     I  hope 

you'll  do  well  —  I  do.     God  bless  you." 

Mr.  Humphreys  took  his  hand,  and  gave  him  an  affec 
tionate  word  of  farewell,  begging  him-  to  throw  off  the 
power  of  the  habit  that  enslaved  so  fine  a  nature,  and 
wishing  him  the  best  of  fortune  wherever  his  lot  might 
carry  him. 

And  in  the  old  tavern  door  they  separated. 

Mr.  Humphreys  took  his  seat  in  the  wagon,  and  was 
soon  on  the  way  to  the  heart  of  the  little  village. 


CHAPTER  II. 

DEACON    BURROUGHS'    FAMILY. 

"  I  WONDER  if  he  will  come  to-day,  mother.  He  cer 
tainly  ought  to  be  here  by  this  time,  if  he  means  to  preach 
next  Sunday  for  us." 

"  Your  father  has  been  expecting  him  every  day,  all 
the  week;  but  he  hasn't  come  yet.  I  believe  he  went 
down  with  the  horse  and  wagon  this  afternoon,  to  see  if 
the  stage  brought  him  over.  If  he  isn't  there  to-day, 
there'll  be  another  disappointment." 

"  I  wonder  what  kind  of  a  looking  man  he  is.  I'm  really 
curious  to  know." 

"  Why,  Mr.  Bard  and  Dr.  Jennings,  who  went  to  hear 
him  preach  where  he  was  hired  for  a  few  months,  said  he 
was  a  j^me-looking  man.  That's  all  /  know  about  it.  But 
his  sermons  they  were  pleased  with  more  than  all.  It's  to 
be  hoped  that  he  won't  disappoint  any  of  us  here.  I  guess, 
from  all  I  can  learn,  too,  that  he  won't." 

"  Do  you  expect  he  will  board  with  us  till  next  spring, 
mother  ?  " 

(20) 


DEACON   BURROUGHS'   FAMILY.  21 

"  That's  the  arrangement  for  the  present ;  unless  he  and 
Mr.  Burroughs  make  some  other,  I  suppose  he  will." 

"  "Well,  I  for  one  shall  be  glad  to  have  a  new  minister 
settled  here.  We've  been  obliged  to  do  the  best  we  could 
quite  long  enough ;  and  that's  not  been  much  above  the 
poorest,  sometimes.  I  hope  Mr.  Humphreys  will  suit  and 
be  suited." 

»  "  And  I  rather  think  he  will,  from  what  I  hear.  He 
comes  to  us  with  the  first  recommendations  from  those  he's 
been  studying  under,  and  certificates  of  the  very  best 
scholarship.  I  guess  he's  a  man  of  uncommon  learning 
for  one  of  his  years." 

There  was  a  pause  here,  which  each  one  of  the  speakers 
improved  for  a  moment  or  two  of  thought.  We  will  im 
prove  it  likewise,  to  tell  the  reader  who  these  persons,  so 
much  interested  in  Mr.  Humphreys,  were. 

Lucy  Burroughs  and  her  mother,  the  daughter  and 
wife  of  the  deacon. 

Mrs.  Burroughs  was  not  quite  a  woman  to  match  the 
character  of  her  husband,  for  —  but  no  matter ;  all  this 
will  duly  come  out  in  the  course  of  the  narrative.  Lucy 
was  different  from  either ;  wholly  herself,  and  no  one  else. 

The  room  in  which  they  sat  looked  unusually  cosy  and 
pleasant,  especially  by  contrast  with  the  gloomy  appearance 
of  things  out  of  doors.  The  fire  blazed  brightly  on  the 
hearth,  —  it  was  long  before  the  invention  of  those  abom 
inations  known  as  "  airtights,"  —  and  threw  out  a  ruddy 
glow  over  the  figures  of  the  carpet,  the  chintz-covered  easy 


22  OUR   PARISH. 

chair,  and  against  the  polished  leaf  of  the  table.  The 
brass  firedogs  glistened  like  gold,  looking  full  of  wavering 
heat,  and  dancing  jets,  and  waves  of  flame.  Before  the 
hearth  was  stretched  a  rug,  somewhat  faded  in  its  colors, 
but  soft  and  thick,  upon  which  a  large  gray  and  white 
tabby  cat  lay  dozing,  filling  the  room  with  her  drowsy 
purrings. 

Such  pleasant  rooms  — how  few  of  them  there  are  now 
adays  !  Or  if  wealth  exchanges  snugness  and  comfort  for 
empty  and  glittering  magnificence,  how  few  and  far  sep 
arated  are  the  hearts  that  acknowledge  their  satisfaction 
with  the  change! 

The  brightly-polished  shovel  and  tongs,  —  the  little  low 
mantel,  on  which  stood  the  lamps  and  the  snuffer  tray,  and 
over  which  hung  a  picture  in  needlework  that  Mrs.  Bur 
roughs  had  wrought  in  her  girlhood,  —  the  carpet,  with  its 
green  and  brown  leaves,  modestly  winding  themselves 
about  the  figures,  —  the  easy  chair,  —  the  long  settle  against 
the  wall,  —  the  high,  old-fashioned  clock,  ticking  and  click 
ing  all  the  time  in  the  corner,  its  voices  echoing  through 
the  night  along  the  passages  and  all  through  the  rooms,  — 
where  are  the  pictures  of  home,  in  these  gregarious  times, 
that  awaken  one  half  the  tender  feelings  in  the  human 
heart,  or  call  up  a  fraction  of  those  dear  old  associations 
that  are  so  closely  linked  in  with  domestic  peace,  and  hap 
piness,  and  love  ?  —  feelings  and  associations  that  are  inter 
twined  with  all  these  several  objects,  and  centred  nowhere 
so  fixedly  as  at  the  quiet  hearth  and  happy  home. 


DEACON  BURROUGHS'  FAMILY.  23 

Both  mother  and  daughter  were  engaged  in  sewing. 
They  did  not  often  take  their  eyes  from  the  work  they  were 
upon,  unless  to  look  thoughtfully  for  a  moment  into  the  fire, 
or  to  note  the  movements  of  the  hands  over  the  face  of  the 
old  clock  in  the  corner. 

Lucy  was  a  girl  of  decided  sprightliness,  and  was  not 
destitute  of  attractions  such  as  readily  hold  the  attention 
of  the  other  sex.  She  was  eighteen,  already  entered  on 
her  nineteenth  year,  —  the  favorite  of  her  mother,  as  she 
additionally  was  her  oldest  child,  —  almost  the  sole  mis 
tress  and  manager  of  the  household,  —  much  given  to  social 
enjoyments,  —  and  full  of  vivacity.  Many  a  girl  was 
there,  in  her  day,  who  envied  the  appearance  and  the  gifts 
of  Lucy  Burroughs. 

The  door  suddenly  opened,  and  in  ran  a  younger  sister, 
named  Sarah. 

" Look  out  of  the  window,  Lucy  !  Look  out,  mother!" 
called  she,  speaking  very  naturally  to  Lucy  first.  "  See 
who  that  is  with  father ! " 

Both  ran,  with  their  work  in  their  laps,  across  the  room, 
and  held  their  faces  a  minute  steadily  against  the  corner  of 
the  window. 

"  I  guess  that  must  be  the  minister,"  said  the  mother. 

Lucy  looked  longer.  She  was  surveying  him  with  some 
what  different  eyes  and  thoughts,  perhaps,  than  her 
mother. 

"  He's  young  looking,  mother,"  said  she,  at  length.  "  I 
thought  he  must  be  older." 


24  OCR   PARISH. 

"  Np,  Dr.  Jennings  said  —  don't  you  remember,  Lucy, 
the  evening  he  spent  here  ?  —  he  said  he  was  young,  and 
that  /should  think  he  was  handsome." 

"  O,  dear ! "  exclaimed  Sarah,  in  a  burst  of  childish  de 
light,  "  I'm  so  glad  he's  going  to  board  here  !  I'm  so  glad ! " 

"  Why,  what  difference  can  that  make  with  you,  I  should 
like  to  know  ? "  inquired  her  sister  Lucy,  looking  round 
upon  her  with  a  searching  glance. 

"  O,  the  girls  at  school  will  all  have  so  many  questions 
to  ask  about  the  new  minister ;  and  I  shall  be  the  only  one 
that  will  know  all  about  him.  Won't  Emma  Ray  be 
vexed,  though  ?  and  won't  I  tease  the  Bards  every  day  I 
live  ?  For  once  in  my  life,  I  shall  seem  to  know  something 
that  every  body  else  doesn't,"  answered  Sarah. 

Deacon  Burroughs  came  up  through  the  front  yard  with 
the  stranger,  having  tied  the  horse  by  a  post  at  the  gate, 
and  entered  the  house.  Bidding  Mr.  Humphreys  come  in 
with  himself,  they  walked  into  the  comfortable  sitting  room 
where  Mrs.  Burroughs  and  her  daughters  still  were,  and 
the  deacon  introduced  him. 

Mr.  Humphreys  expressed  the  satisfaction  it  gave  him 
to  reach  Brookboro'  in  safety,  and  to  find  such  agreeable 
quarters  ready  provided  for  him.  He  likewise  had  a 
pleasant  word  or  two  for  Lucy,  and  put  Sarah  a  few  ques 
tions  concerning  the  school  she  attended,  that  soon  sent  her 
out  of  the  room  for  her  blushes  in  answering  them. 

"  It's  been  a  very  uncomfortable  day  for  you  to  ride," 
remarked  Mrs.  Burroughs.  "  I  am  glad  your  journey  is 
over,  really." 


DEACON  BURROUGHS'  FAMILY.  25 

' 

"  No  more  so  than  myself,  I  can  assure  you,"  returned 
he,  with  a  slight  bow  in  acknowledgment  of  her  civility. 
"  I  like  stage  coaching  very  well,  except  when  I  am  im 
patient,  as  I  was  a  little  to-day.     The  horses  hardly  seemed 
?  to  creep,  some  of  the  way." 

"  It  is  not  so  pleasant  a  season  for  you  to  see  Brookboro' 
for  the  first  time  as  some  other  might  be." 

"  The  spring,  for  instance,"  said  the  deacon. 

"  Yes,  or  June.     June  is  a  lovely  month." 

"  My  first  impressions  of  a  place  are  very  apt  to  be  quite 
permanent  ones,"  said  the  clergyman.  "  I  believe  those 
of  most  people  are." 

"  They  certainly  are,"  said  the  deacon,  warming  his 
hands  in  the  blaze. 

"  Yet  I  shall  try  and  allow  no  wintry  impressions  of 
Brookboro'  to  get  the  better  of  the  pleasanter  ones  you 
have  desired  for  me.  I  really  thought,  as  we  were  climb 
ing  over  the  hills  to  get  here,  that  the  village  could  not 
help  being  prettily  located.  I  pictured  it  sleeping  in  the 
lap  of  the  hills." 

"  It  is  something  of  that  description,"  returned  Mrs. 
Burroughs.  "  I  think  that  is  a  very  good  picture  of  it." 

The  deacon  assented  in  a  short  monosyllable,  although 
he  was  by  no  means  a  man  inclined  to  figures  and  images, 
but  rather  to  the  plainest  and  hardest  practicalities. 
\  "  Lucy,"  said  his  wife,  "  Mr.  Humphreys  must  be  in 
need  of  supper  by  this  time,  and  after  so  long  a  ride. 
Come,  let  us  get  supper  at  once." 


26  OUR  PARISH. 

Lucy  rose  immediately  to  assist  in  executing  her  moth 
er's  wish. 

"And  don't  forget  some  cold  chicken  and  other  solid 
things,"  reminded  the  deacon.  "A  person  wants  nothing 
more  than  he  wants  meat,  at  such  a  time  as  this." 

Mr.  Humphreys  smiled  to  be  a  witness  of  his  host's 
thoughtfulness,  and  at  once  drew  him  into  conversation 
about  matters  of  parish  and  village  interest.  They  had 
gone  on  talking  for  some  moments.  Mrs.  Burroughs,  in 
the  mean  time,  had  placed  a  bright  tin  teapot  on  the  coals, 
for  the  tea  to  "  draw "  in,  and  Lucy  was  bustling  about 
the  room  as  lively  as  a  cricket,  setting  out  the  table,  and 
spreading  over  it  the  cloth,  and  arranging  the  waiter. 

"  By  the  by,"  broke  out  the  deacon,  slapping  his  knee, 
u  I  almost  forgot  the  horse  at  the  gate  ! "  —  and  started 
from  his  chair.  "And  your  baggage,  too,  Mr.  Hum 
phreys." 

"  Let  me  go  out  and  help  you,"  said  the  latter,  getting 
up  likewise.  "  I  shall  not  allow  you  to  take  out  my  trunks 
alone." 

"  0,  no,  no  ;  I've  got  a  boy  here.  I  can  get  help  enough. 
You  sit  still  by  the  fire,  and  get  yourself  as  comfortable  as 
you  can.  I'U  soon  have  all  the  things  in  the  house." 

"  Yes,  you  keep  your  seat,  Mr.  Humphreys,"  chimed  in 
his  wife. 

So  the  latter  reluctantly  consented,  and  plunged  his  eyes 
thoughtfully  into  the  fire. 

Lucy,  who  was  at  his  back  much  of  the  time,  kept 


DEACON  BURROUGHS'  FAMILY.  27 

•  -   £  ' 

casting  curious  and  inquisitive  eyes  upon  him  as  she  moved 
quietly  about,  studying  the  shape  of  his  head  and  the  cut 
of  his  coat  with  all  the  interest  of  a  hairdresser  or  a  tai 
lor.  She  was  continually  going  out  and  in,  bringing  in  the 
articles  that  were  prepared  for  their  supper.  As  her 
mother  occasionally  came  in,  too,  she  put  an  inquiry  to  Mr. 
Humphreys  concerning  his  day's  travel,  or  dropped  some 
pleasant  and  sociable  observation  respecting  the  weather, 
the  town,  or  the  supper.  But  nearly  all  the  time  he  sat 
there,  Mr.  Humphreys  was  taken  up  with  his  own  thoughts 
chiefly. 

Presently  the  deacon  returned.  He  had  a  large,  genial, 
good-humored  face,  that  at  once  suggested  a  comparison 
with  the  blaze  on  the  hearth. 

"  You  are  hurrying,  I  suppose,  Lucy,  with  the  supper," 
said  he  to  his  bustling  daughter. 

"  It  will  be  ready  very  soon  now,  father,"  replied  she. 

"  We  will  try  and  make  a  sort  of  home  evening  of  it, 
this  evening,  Mr.  Humphreys,"  said  the  deacon,  "  and  to 
morrow,  if  you  like,  we  will  look  about  us  a  little.  It's 
none  too  soft  an  air  that's  stirring  out  doors  to-day." 

Mrs.  Burroughs  soon  after  entered  the  room,  busy  with 
the  adjustment  of  the  new  and  clean  cap  she  had  just  put 
on,  and  announced  that  supper  was  ready.  It  ought  to 
have  been,  for  her  face  was  quite  red  enough  with  get 
ting  it. 

They  sat  down,  the  deacon  appealing  to  his  guest  to 
crave  a  blessing.  It  was  a  snug  little  picture,  and  the 


28  OUR   PARISH. 

clergyman  thought  it  as  pretty  a  family  as  he  had  seen. 
There  were  the  deacon  and  his  wife,  —  Lucy,  Sarah,  and 
Edward,  —  a  younger  brother. 

On  the  table  were  laid  the  bounties  of  the  year.  Never, 
Mr.  Humphreys  thought,  had  he  cut  with  the  blade  of  his 
knife  such  deliciously  tender  chicken.  Never  saw  he  bread 
any  whiter,  nor  honey  any  clearer.  The  deacon  kept  a 
few  hives  of  bees,  and  knew  their  full  value.  The  butter 
was  like  gold,  and  bore  a  quaint  stamp  of  a  serpent,  twist 
ing  itself  about  something  that  was  not  quite  so  apparent. 
The  tea  revived  him  immediately,  and  seemed  to  give  him 
fresh  spirits. 

This  was  the  clergyman's  first  meal  in  the  new  place  he 
had  chosen  for  his  labor.  It  certainly  did  not  fail  to  bring 
up  before  his  mind  images  of  the  many  groups  about  the 
village  tables,  that,  if  he  staid  long  with  this  people,  he 
should  be  called  on  to  witness  and  become  a  part  of.  Per 
haps  it  set  him  to  dreaming  of  the  time  when  he  should 
have  a  table  and  a  circle  all  his  own ;  at  which  thought 
his  heart  warmed  suddenly,  and  his  eye  kindled,  as  if  he 
tasted  a  new  delight  in  the  strong  decoction  he  was  so 
leisurely  sipping. 

After  the  evening  meal  was  finished,  they  gathered 
around  the  hearth,  the  fire  having  been  remodelled  with 
another  forestick  and  a  handful  of  smaller  pieces,  and 
passed  a  long  time  in  friendly  conversation.  Dr.  Jennings 
came  in,  too,  bringing  Mr.  Wilkinson,  the  preceptor  of  the 
academy,  with  him.  Mr.  Humphreys  had  seen  the  doctor 


DEACON    BURROUGHS'    FAMILY.  29 

before,  at  the  time  the  latter  had  made  the  proposal  for 
him  to  preach  for  them  a  year  at  Brookboro'.  He  seemed 
an  affable  man,  perhaps  forty  or  forty-five  years  old,  and 
full  of  a  fund  of  intelligence  and  anecdote  — just  such  "a 
man  as  Mr.  Humphreys  thought  he  should  thoroughly 
like. 

Mr.  Wilkinson  was  a  reserved,  a  much  more  dignified 
person,  observing  silence  oftener  than  the  doctor,  and  much 
given  to  revery.  Yet  when  he  spoke,  though  it  was  with 
the  greatest  precision  and  particularity,  he  never  failed  to 
interest  with  what  he  said,  no  less  than  with  his  manner  of 
saying  it.  He  was  not  as  old  as  Dr.  Jennings ;  yet  he 
looked  quite  as  old,  if  not  older.  There  was  not  that 
healthy,  florid  look  in  his  face,  suggestive  of  animal  life 
and  towering  spirits,  that  was  so  apparent  and  so  attractive 
with  the  doctor.  He  wore  the  face  of  the  preceptor  every 
where  —  a  constrained  and  somewhat  unnatural  look,  as 
if  he  might  be  oppressed  with  a  sense  of  isolation  from  all 
around  him. 

After  an  evening  spent  very  agreeably  by  all  parties, 
and  after  many  urgent  invitations  from  both  the  teacher 
and  the  doctor  for  Mr.  Humphreys  to  call  at  their  houses 
as  soon  as  he  could  make  it  convenient,  the  latter  bade  good 
night,  and  returned  homewards. 

Deacon  Burroughs  then  assembled  his  household  about 
the  family  altar,  and  offered  prayers  not  less  for  the  servant 
of  the  gospel  who  had  come  among  them,  than  for  all  who 
were  gathered  that  night  beneath  the  roof. 


SO  ..  OUR  PARISH. 

Mr.  Humphreys  soon  after  wished  all  good  night,  and 
was  shown  to  his  room.  As  soon  as  he  entered  it,  and  had 
closed  the  door  after  him,  he  saw  that  his  baggage  had 
been  safely  deposited  there,  and  the  room  put  in  complete 
readiness  for  his  comfort.  The  carpet  was  soft ;  the  cur 
tains  at  the  two  windows  were  full  and  flowing,  reaching 
almost  to  the  floor ;  the  little  fireplace,  with  its  bright  fire- 
dogs,  was  ready  for  a  fresh  blaze ;  the  bed  looked  so  invit 
ing,  with  its  white  curtains,  and  clean  valance,  and  snowy 
tester. 

The  clergyman  placed  his  lamp  on  the  little  stand,  and 
fell  down  on  his  knees  in  a  prayer  of  gratitude  and  thanks 
giving.  He  asked  favor  for  all  his  labors  upon  which  he 
was  about  entering.  He  prayed  for  strength  from  the 
Source  of  all  strength  when  his  own  would  be  but  feeble 
and  inoperative.  Pie  commended  the  family  to  Heaven, 
and  begged  that  the  dew  of  righteousness  might  be  shed 
on  them  all,  as  upon  himself. 

Wearied  and  worn  with  his  journey,  he  fell  finally 
asleep. 


CHAPTER  HI. 

THE  MEN  OF  BROOKBORO'. 

MR.  HUMPHREYS  found  that  he  had  really  overslept 
himself  in  the  morning,  and  did  not  wonder  at  it  either. 
The  sun  was  shining  brilliantly  in  at  his  window  as  he 
pushed  aside  the  curtain,  and  made  the  little  apartment 
look  as  golden  as  an  imperial  palace. 

After  breakfast  and  prayers  he  returned  to  his  trunks, 
and  prepared  to  make  a  fire  and  put  his  room  in  order. 
His  first  thought  was  to  settle  down.  When  he  had  been 
able  to  attach  his  heart  to  some  particular  spot,  like  the 
roof  of  Deacon  Burroughs,  and  the  little  chamber  within 
and  beneath  that  roof,  he  felt  as  if  he  should  have  some 
starting  point  from  which  to  gradually  make  his  departure 
over  the  parish.  As  yet  his  pastoral  experience  was  noth 
ing.  He  had  been  preaching  but  a  few  months,  unsettled 
in  his  plans  and  determinations,  and  by  no  means  doing 
justice  by  his  labors  to  the  sacred  cause  in  which  he  had 
enlisted.  Now,  however,  for  a  time  at  least,  he  would 
remain  in  a  fixed  position.  He  could  concentrate  all  his 

(31) 

HI 


32  OUK   PARISH. 

energies  on  a  single  object  and  purpose.  A  single  parish 
was  to  be  his  care,  and  within  that  were  his  efforts  mainly 
to  be  exerted. 

So  with  these  thoughts,  and  others  like  these,  he  pro 
ceeded  to  relieve  his  plethoric  trunks,  and  to  distribute  his 
several  articles  of  clothing  in  the  drawers  and  the  closet  pro 
vided,  and  to  take  out  the  few  needful  books  he  had  brought 
with  him,  as  a  sort  of  peripatetic  library,  and  spread  them 
over  the  table  and  bureau  until  such  time  as  he  could 
obtain  some  shelves ;  and  to  repair  the  fire,  which  he  had 
succeeded  in  getting  into  a  pleasant  glow,  and  which  lit  up 
his  room  with  a  blaze  as  cheery  and  genial  as  any  that 
ever  danced  up  a  chimney ;  and  to  arrange  the  table  in  one 
place,  and  the  chairs  in  another  —  for  he  was  a  person  a 
trifle  fastidious  in  his  tastes ;  and  to  adjust  the  two  curtains 
so  as  to  give  him  the  pleasantest  possible  prospect  out  over 
the  yard  and  the  street,  yet  so  as  to  avoid  a  wide-open, 
glaring  look  to  the  passer,  as  if  he  desired  all  the  light 
there  was  and  all  the  prospect  he  could  get.  In  short,  in 
the  space  of  a  very  short  time,  he  had  given  to  his  apart 
ment  such  a  snug  home  look  that  he  stopped  and  half  won 
dered  if  a  gentler  hand  than  his  own  could  have  done  it 
any  better. 

He  heard  a  knock,  at  length,  on  the  door,  and  hastened 
to  open  it. 

Deacon  Burroughs  stood  before  him. 

"  Well,"  said  the  latter,  "  I've  got  through  with  my  morn 
ing's  work  j  how  is  it  with  you,  Mr.  Humphreys  ?  " 


THE   MEN    OF   BROOKBORO*.  33 

tt  O,  walk  in,  walk  in,"  replied  the  clergyman ;  "  I  didn't 
intend  to  do  any  writing  to-day.  I  was  only  putting  things 
'  to  rights/  as  the  housekeepers  say.  Sit  down,  deacon ; 
we  will  soon  be  ready  for  our  little  excursion  over  the 
village.  That's  what  you  came  to  remind  me  of,  I  suppose." 

"  Yes,  sir ;  I  thought  we  had  better  be  going  pretty  soon. 
It's  nearly  ten  o'clock." 

"Is  it  possible?  Well  —  well;  but  I  have  been  so 
much  occupied  with  getting  out  my  things,  and  setting 
matters  into  a  eomeatible  shape,  that  time  has  really  slipped 
me.  I  could  not  have  thought  of  its  being  so  late  as  that. 
I'll  get  myself  ready  at  once." 

u  I  declare,  how  pleasant  you  look  here !  I  almost 
envy  j^>u." 

The  deacon  had  the  best  of  natural  feelings,  and  these 
were  now  and  then  streaked  with  a  narrow  vein  of  imagi 
nation,  or  of  something  very  like  it.  It  looked  as  if  ho 
had  just  now  allowed  his  heart  to  settle  itself  in  a  warm 
nest  of  comfortable  associations,  just  as  he  settled  his  per 
son  in  the  capacious  depths  of  the  old  arm  chair. 

"  I  am  in  hopes  I  shall  have  much  of  your  company 
here  this  winter,"  returned  the  clergyman.  "  I  shall  need 
your  counsel  at  every  step." 

The  deacon  pondered  on  the  past  and  the  future  of  the 
parish,  and  thought  of  what  was  most  needed.  Mr.  Hum 
phreys  washed  and  dressed  himself  anew,  and  put  himself 
in  readiness  to  make  the  tour  of  the  town. 

As  they  emerged  from  the  yard  gate  upon  the  street, 
3 


34  OUR   PARISH. 

Mr.  Humphreys  turned  about  to  latch  the  gate,  and  acci 
dentally  threw  his  eyes  up  at  the  house.  A  female  figure 
suddenly  started  back  from  the  window.  If  he  gave  him 
self  a  thought  about  such  an  apparition,  he  must  have 
thought  it  was  Lucy ;  for  it  was  she,  as  the  deeply-colored 
face  she  carried  for  some  time  after  fully  testified. 

They  came  immediately  upon  the  village  street. 

"  Which  way  ?"  naturally  inquired  Mr.  Humphreys. 

"  This,  I  think,  at  first,"  answered  the  deacon,  pointing 
in  a  northward  direction.  "  There  is  but  little  of  the 
village  below  this,  though  the  tavern  is  there.  That  is 
because  the  stages  cannot  run  through  the  village  street. 
The  stores  are  here,  and  so  is  the  post  office.  The  academy 
is  in  this  direction,  too.  It  stands  back  from  the  stteet,  OB 
a  high  piece  of  ground.  We  will  walk  by  it  soon." 

The  clergyman,  as  they  went  leisurely  along,  looked  up 
and  down,  forward  and  backward,  on  this  side  and  the 
other,  all  the  way.  It  was  a  wide  street,  bordered  on 
either  side  with  grass,  somewhat  irregular  in  the  method 
of  laying  out,  but  perhaps  all  the  more  picturesque  on  that 
account.  The  houses  were  all  of  wood,  large  and  spacious, 
with  door  yards  in  front,  and  most  of  them  fringed  and  set 
about  with  shrubs,  and  flowering  bushes,  and  trees.  A  not 
unbroken  row  of  elms  lined  the  street,  their  giant  arms 
stripped  of  foliage,  and  tossing  and  rolling  hither  and 
thither  in  the  morning  winds. 

The  street  turned,  as  they  progressed ;  and  some  of  the 
houses  were  set  back  farther  than  others,  giving  things  a 

*  ••*»'  i 


THE  MEN   OF  BROOKBOKO*.  35 

still  more  irregular  aspect.  To  the  north  the  road  lay 
among  the  hills  that  raised  their  crowns  to  the  sky,  and 
showed  narrow  and  bleak  on  this  morning  in  November. 
It  opened  to  Mr.  Humphreys'  mind  many  thoughts  of  the 
dim  and  distant  future,  whose  narrow  and  winding  road  he 
was  just  beginning  to  travel.  It  sent  feelings  vividly  to 
his  heart  of  the  long  journey  he  had  yet  to  go ;  and  he 
offered  a  silent  prayer  that  he  might  reach  the  end  of  it 
with  the  whole  of  his  little  flock  about  him. 

"  There  is  the  meeting  house,"  said  Deacon  Burroughs, 
pointing  towards  it. 

It  was  a  substantial  building,  painted  a  pure  white,  with 
out  blinds  on  the  outside,  and  surmounted  by  a  tall,  slender 
spire.  The  spire  was  really  worthy  of  a  prettier  building. 
Wide  steps  of  stone  were  placed  before  the  three  doors, 
and  before  them  in  turn  stretched  out  a  little  sloping  lawn 
of  grass.  There  were  large  and  roomy  sheds  built  on 
either  side  of  the  meeting  house,  under  which  those  who 
rode  to  meeting  from  a  distance  secured  their  horses  during 
the  services.  A  crooked-linked  lightning  rod  climbed  the 
side  of  the  house,  and  pointed  "with  its  gilded  finger  above 
the  tip  of  the  spire  to  the  deep-blue  heaven. 

Mr.  Humphreys  said  but  little.  His  thoughts  were 
altogether  his  own.  Not  the  outward  and  material  appear 
ance  of  things  was  he  only  studying,  but  the  spirit  and  the 
reality  of  which  every  material  object  was  but  the  type  and 
manifestation. 

At  length  they-  reached  the  store  kept  by  Mr.  Israel 


36  OUR  PARISH. 

Bard.  Mr.  Humphreys  recollected  that  he  was  on  the 
committee  with  Dr.  Jennings  to  employ  his  pastoral  services 
for  the  Brookboro'  church. 

They  stepped  within,  and  found  Mr.  Bard  sitting  by  the 
box  stove,  engaged  in  reading  a  newspaper. 

The  latter  rose  to  accost  Mr.  Humphreys,  and  shook 
hands  cordially  with  him,  offering  him  a  chair.  And  all 
three  sat  down  to  a  pleasant  interchange  of  their  feelings. 

Mr.  Israel  Bard  was  a  somewhat  peculiar  man,  stamped 
after  a  decidedly  individual  fashion.  He  was  slightly  bald, 
and  read  his  newspaper  with  the  assistance  of  glasses.  His 
occupation  being  that  of  storekeeper  and  postmaster  to 
gether,  and  his  accumulations  from  trade  and  saving  being 
sufficient  to  establish  him  on  a  basis  of  village  independ 
ence,  he  was  naturally  looked  up  to  with  a  feeling  of  great 
respect,  while  his  word,  or  his  opinion,  went  as  far  as  his 
that  went  farthest  the  whole  country  round. 

He  was  a  member  of  the  church,  and  took  a  great  inter 
est  in  its  temporal  and  spiritual  welfare ;  but  he  did  it  after 
a  style  which  he  was  unwilling  to  acknowledge  any  imita 
tion  or  copy.  Being  as  old  a  man  as  there  was  in  town,  at 
least  among  those  who  were  considered  the  solid  men  of 
the  town,  he  seemed  to  insist  on  receiving  every  particle 
of  respect  that  was  his  due,  while,  in  his  turn,  he  kept 
people  generally  at  such  a  distance  from  the  circle  of  his 
feelings  as  compelled  them  to  comply  with  his  wish.  He 
passed  much  of  his  time,  if  not  the  most  of  it,  in  his  store, 
save  during  the  summer,  when  it  was  passed  chiefly  about 
his  farm  lands  and  garden. 


THE   MEN   OP  BKOOKBORO*. 


37 


His  family  was  large,  consisting  of  a  son,  Joseph,  and 
several  girls,  all  of  them  much  younger  than  their  brother, 
and  full  of  girlish  life  and  vivacity.  They  constituted— 
the  family  of  Mr.  Israel  Bard  —  quite  an  item  in  the 
little  country  parish,  not  numerically  alone,  but  considered 
from  the  point  of  village  influence  and  esteem. 

Mr.  Bard  had  every  thing  to  say  about  church  matters 
and  matters  pertaining  to  the  general  interests  of  the  par 
ish.  He  was  the  society's  treasurer.  He  was  made  the 
safe  repositary  of  all  the  business,  all  the  secrets,  and  all 
the  prospects,  until  such  tune  as,  in  his  opinion,  it  might  be 
practicable  to  divulge  them. 

While  they  sat  about  the  stove,  one  and  another  of  the 
villagers  dropped  in,  to  some  of  whom  Deacon  Burroughs 
introduced  the  new  minister,  every  one  of  them  seeming  to 
feel  cordially  thankful  that  they  had  got  an  individual  to 
become  their  pastor  again.  There  was  Mr.  Upton,  the 
honest  and  open-faced  blacksmith,  who  had  come  in  to  pro 
vide  a  few  articles  in  the  grocery  line  for  his  family ;  and 
Mr.  Sanger,  the  village  lawyer,  a  man  of  an  important, 
bustling,  impressive  air,  who  walked  the  floor  continually, 
scrutinizing  every  object  closely  that  came  under  his  eyes  ; 
and  Mr.  Johnson,  a  good  and  worthy  farmer,  who  held  his 
hard  hand  a  great  while  against  the  hot  stovepipe,  and  said 
it  was  a  "right  smart"  cold  day,  and  looked  as  if  he  might 
know  what  was  the  exact  meaning  of  a  plenty  to  eat,  and 
finally  asked  Mr.  Bard  what  fresh  eggs  "  were  fetching," 
and  if  he  wanted  any. 


38  OUR  PARISH. 

And  so  they  came  in  and  went  out,  almost  a  steady 
stream,  for  a  long  while.  All  appeared  to  be  men  of  the 
truest  simplicity  of  character,  and  of  unquestionable  sin 
cerity  of  feeling.  Their  hands  were  hard,  but  it  was  with 
hard  work ;  they  were  not  idlers  in  Brookboro',  whatever 
they  might  be  in  some  other  places  around  them.  The 
most  of  them  were  farmers,  well  to  do  in  the  world,  re 
garding  their  calling  with  the  deep  respect  in  which  it  has 
been  held  since  man  was  made  to  earn  his  bread  by  the 
sweat  of  his  brow,  honest,  straightforward,  law-abiding 
men.  A  good  community,  surely,  in  which  a  new  servant 
of  the  gospel  might  begin  his  devoted  labors,  where,  if  he 
could  not  always  look  for  close  sympathy,  he  might  at  least 
always  claim  attention. 

Mr.  Bard  was  a  man  of  few  words,  and  even  those  came 
with  difficulty.  He  had  a  habit  of  hesitation  and  of  very 
slow  speech,  as  if  he  were  giving  each  topic  all  the  con 
sideration  it  merited.  In  the  way  of  business,  he  certainly 
belonged  to  an  age  at  this  time  supposed  to  have  gone  by 
forever ;  though  abundant  specimens  of  just  such  men  are 
to  be  found,  for  the  looking,  in  almost  every  country  store 
where  the  trade  is  inconsiderable  and  the  profits  in  pro 
portion. 

"Perhaps  you  will  take  dinner  with  me,  Mr.  Hum- 
phreys,"  said  he  to  the  young  clergyman,  looking  over  his 
spectacles. 

Mr.  Humphreys  looked  quickly  towards  Deacon  Bur 
roughs,  to  whom  Mr.  Bard  still  failed  to  extend  the  same 


THE   MEN   OF   BROOKE OBO*.  89 

invitation.  Deacon  Burroughs  coughed  dryly,  and  said  that, 
as  thBy  were  merely  going  through  the  village,  it  would 
perhaps  be  as  well  if  Mr.  Humphreys  put  it  off  till  some 
other  day. 

"  I  should  be  very  glad  to  have  your  company,"  slowly 
rejoined  Mr.  Bard  to  the  clergyman. 

They  finally  withdrew,  and  proceeded  farther  up  the 
street.  Presently  the  deacon  made  a  turn  into  what 
seemed  a  grassy  lane  rather  than  a  road,  and  said  they 
would  just  take  a  look  at  the  academy.  Putting  a  little 
more  vigor  into  their  walk,  therefore,  they  soon  climbed  the 
gradual  ascent  to  the  spot  where  the  building  was  located, 
and  had  a  fine  view  of  the  whole  village.  The  street  lay 
for  nearly  its  entire  length  before  them.  Where  it  was 
not  itself  traceable  among  the  houses  and  between  the  un 
even  surfaces,  the  tops  of  the  trees  betrayed  its  shape  and 
course.  The  white  houses  looked  comfortable  and  pleasant, 
and  suggested  many  of  those  delightful  home  feelings  to 
the  breast  of  the  clergyman  that  are  always  active  with 
persons  of  just  such  sympathies  and  mental  predilections. 

The  academy,  therefore,  was  somewhat  off  the  road. 
The  one  that  had  freen  laid  out  near  it,  being  a  cross  road 
only,  led  to  the  farms  on  the  hills  in  the  distance,  and  then 
to  the  next  village.  Built  of  wood,  but  of  excellent  pro 
portions,  the  academy  was  an  edifice  of  no  inconsiderable 
importance  in  the  appearance  of  the  town.  Every  body 
gpoke  of  it  in  a  spirit  of  pride.  It  was  at  this  time  in  the 
most  satisfactory  condition,  the  present  teacher  having 

'ts. 


40  OUR  PARISH. 

succeeded  in  establishing  for  it  a  character  that  was  known 
far  and  wide  over  that  part  of  the  country.  Of  course, 
this  served  to  bring  strangers  and  pupils  to  Brookboro', 
which  fact  added  much  to  the  activity  of  village  matters, 
as  well  as  to  the  real  character  and  standing  of  the  place. 

While  he  stood  before  the  building,  Mr.  Humphreys 
could  not  help  letting  his  thoughts  carry  him  back  to  the 
earlier  days,  when  he  was  in  the  enjoyment  of  luxuriant 
youth  —  that  season  when  only  the  imagination  is  allowed 
action  without  constraint,  and  the  hard  realities  of  life  are 
known  only  as  pleasant  varieties  in  the  exciting  play.  The 
deacon  kept  talking  of  the  prospect  and  of  the  place, 
warming  with  his  subject  as  his  honest  heart  always  did, 
till  he  had  wrought  himself  up  to  quite  a  pitch  of  enthu 
siasm  ;  and  all  about  Brookboro',  and  Brookboro'  scenery 
and  people. 

•Walking  back  to  the  village,  —  for  it  was  quite  noon,  — • 
they  stopped  a  moment  before  the  house  of  Dr.  Jennings, 
who  happened  just  then  to  be  coming  up. 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Humphreys,"  saluted  he,  with  a 
cordiality  that  was  contagious ;  "  good  morning,  deacon. 
Come,  you  are  exactly  in  time  for  me.  Just  my  hour. 
Come  —  you'll  walk  in  and  dine  with  me.  I  shan't  hear 
a  word  against  it,"  —  here  he  put  his  hand  on  both  gen 
tlemen's  arms,  —  "I  shan't  hear  a  single  word  to  the  con 
trary.  Dinner's  quite  ready  now.  Come  —  walk  in  ; 
walk  in !  Deacon  Bourroughs,  you  know  the  way.  At 
any  rate,  follow  me,  and  I'll  promise  not  to  carry  you 
wrong."  - 


THE   MEN   OP   BKOOKBORO*.  41 

' 

They  tried  to  hesitate  and  exercise  a  little  deliberation 
upon  it ;  but  the  doctor  would  not  allow  even  this.  He 
seemed  to  have  a  way  of  taking  off  people  by  main  force, 
against  their  original  wills,  but  generally  TO  their  after  sat 
isfaction.  So  in  they  went,  and  sat  down  in  his  large 
dining  room.  The  doctor's  wife  came  in,  and  then  one  of 
his  daughters.  The  rest  of  his  children  were  still  at 
school. 

A  pleasant  chat  they  had  of  it ;  and  a  pleasant  hour,  too, 
was  that  devoted  to  dinner.  Mr.  Humphreys  felt  as  if  he 
had  learned  more  in  that  one  hour  about  the  real  history 
and  condition  of  Brookboro'  than  all  he  had  known  before. 
The  doctor  was  so  communicative,  telling  an  apt  story  here, 
and  rehearsing  a  characteristic  matter  there,  —  now  appeal 
ing  to  the  deacon  for  confirmation  of  what  he  said,  or  to 
draw  out  from  his  stores  what  did  not  happen  to  come  up 
permost  in  his  own,  —  and  all  the  time  in  the  best  flow  of 
spirits  with  which  to  set  off  the  whole.  His  family,  too, 
appeared  remarkably  pleasant,  and  every  thing  appertain 
ing  to  his  household  extremely  well  ordered.  Dr.  Jennings 
was,  heart  and  soul,  a  thorough  man.  There  seemed  to 
be,  as  people  sometimes  say,  no  half  way  about  him.  If 
he  attempted  only  to  entertain  you,  he  did  it  with  all  the 
energy  and  heartiness  that  would  characterize  his  jumping 
into  his  sulky  and  driving  off  posthaste  to  attend  a  sink 
ing  patient. 

And  when  dinner  was  over,  and  a  little  more  time  had 
elapsed  afterward  in  which  to  sit  and  continue  their  run- 


42  OUR   PARISH. 

ning  talk,  they  at  length  broke  up  their  friendly  conference, 
and  Deacon  Burroughs  escorted  Mr.  Humphreys  down  the 
street  on  his  way  home  again.  They  stopped,  however, 
at  the  other  stoft,  to  look  in  on  Mr.  Plimton  —  the  keeper 
of  the  only  other  store  in  the  village.  And  from  this  point 
they  returned  finally  home. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

THE    FIKST    SABBATH. 

IMMEDIATELY  after  supper,  having  already  replenished 
fire  and  placed  his  room  in  order,  Mr.  Humphreys  ex 
cused  himself  to  the  family,  and  retired  to  the  companion 
ship  of  his  own  thoughts. 

It  was  his  first  evening  by  himself  in  Brookboro*.  He 
drew  down  the  curtains  before  the  windows,  pushed  the 
arm  chair  up  near  the  table,  took  some  manuscript  sermons 
from  his  trunk,  and  seated  himself  for  their  perusal.  He 
was  getting  himself  ready  for  the  performance  of  the  duties 
of  the  next  Sabbath. 

But  before  he  could  fairly  fix  his  attention  upon  the 
manuscript,  his  eyes  wandered  dreamily  over  the  carpet, 
—  over  the  walls,  —  into  the  blazing  fire  on  the  hearth; 
and  his  heart  filled  with  feelings  such  as  had  hardly  been 
a  part  of  its  experience  before.  He  was  trying  now  to 
settle  himself  down.  Here  was  his  work  before  him. 
This  was  his  own  snug  apartment ;  there  was  the  pleasant 
fire  ;  these  were  his  papers  and  books.  To  look  forward 

(43) 


44  OUR   PARISH. 

to  the  duties  and  the  responsibilities  of  a  pastor  —  that 
was  no  longer  his  privilege.  He  was  right  in  the  midst  of 
his  work  already.  He  had  put  his  hand  to  the  plough ; 
could  he  now  look  back,  when  the  work  stretched  out  so 
broadly  before  him?  The  sickle  was  ready  to  put  into 
the  bending  harvest ;  could  he  stop  to  consider  how  hard 
was  his  labor,  even  if  no  other  busy  hand  were  to  be  de 
tected  in  the  whole  field  but  his  own  ? 

And  so  thoughtful  grew  his  mood,  that  he  sat  looking 
steadily  into  the  fire  for  quite  a  half  hour,  without  being 
aware  of  the  time  that  had  so  slipped  away. 

How  many  of  the  hopes  of  that  half  hour's  dream 
were  ever  to  be  realized  ?  How  much  of  that  half  hour's 
pictured  outline  was  ever  to  be  filled  in  with  living  and 
breathing  reality  ? 

The  sermons  which  he  had  selected  for  the  next  Sunday 
were,  however,  thoughtfully  read  over,  and  some  trifling 
improvements  made  in  them  by  his  careful  pen.  He  took 
his  Bible  from  the  table,  and  opened  to  the  gospels,  and 
there  read  and  studied  for  an  hour.  And  afterward  he 
drew  nearer  to  his. fire,  and  gave  himself  up  to  the  thoughts- 
that  his  reading  and  the  silence  of  his  chamber  combined 
to  inspire. 

A  fervid  prayer  it  was  that  he  offered  at  the  throne  that 
night,  awakening  his  nature  as  he  rarely  felt  it  aroused. 
He  seemed  to  feel  drawn  up  to  Heaven  in  spirit  by  a  cord 
of  the  most  trustful  and  childlike  love.  All  his  hopes  fee 
laid  before  his  Maker,  and  asked  him  to  be  witness  to  their 


THE  FIRST  SABBATH.  45 

purity  and  troth.    His  burdens  he  prayed  to  hare  lightened 
when  they  might  become  too  heavy  for  poor,  weak,  human 
nature  to  bear.     He  besought  that  he  might  become  a  true 
messenger  to  this  people ;  that  every  unholy  and  worldly 
affection  might  be  rooted  out  of  his  heart,  and  devotion  to 
^  the  interests  of  the  gospel  mission  alone  regulate  his  con- 
k  duct  and  color  his  life ;  that  unity  might  every  where  pre- 
|  vail  within  the  field  of  his  labors,  each  hand  cheerfully 
helping  its  neighbor,  and  each  heart  leaning  towards  the 
other  in  affectionate  sympathy ;  that  the  relation  between 
?  pastor  and  people  might  be  close,  sweet,  and  altogether 
p  profitable ;  and  that  only  the  flowers  of  truth,  and  grace, 
I  and  purity  might  be  suffered  to  grow  in  this  pleasant  gar 
den,  the  weeds  of  evil  desires  and  passions  being  all  choked 
Bind  withered. 

Only  two  days  remained  before  Sunday.    In  that  time 

he  called  twice  at  the  house  of  Dr.  Jennings,  and  once 

:  upon  Mr.  Bard,  who  took  him  in  to  see  his  family.    Mr. 

-  Upton,  too,  he  met  again  in  the  store,  and  liked  his  appear 
ance  more  than  ever.    There  was  so  much  lionest  manli- 

•  cess,  combined  with  womanly  tenderness,  in  his  nature,  it 
(  could  not  fail  to  attract  so  observing  and  sympathetic  a  man 
:  as  Mr.  Humphreys. 

The  most  of  the  time  was  passed  in  his  chamber-studV. 
• 
?  His  books  were  his  chief  companions.    The  deacon  was 

font  about  his  work  nearly  all  the  day,  and  the  house  below 

f  stairs  was  kept  very  still,  with  only  Mrs.  Burroughs  and 

Lucy  to  make  the  noise,  the  other  children  being  at  school. 


46  OUR  PARISH. 

Some  of  the  younger  ladies  of  the  village  took  occasion  to 
call,  ostensibly,  and  perhaps  really,  for  the  sake  of  seeing 
Lucy  ;  but  whether  they  did  or  not,  it  is  certain  that  they 
hardly  saw  the  new  minister.  He  kept  himself  close. 

Books  !  already  he  began  to  feel  the  need  of  them.  If 
he  could  but  be  furnished  with  a  well-filled  library  to  his 
hand !  —  all  the  volumes  of  his  own  selection ;  with  the 
familiar  faces  of  all  the  old  divines  looking  out  from  their 
shelves  at  him ;  with  their  richest  treasures  garnered  for 
his  enjoyment  and  profit.  But  so  long  as  such  was  not  his 
possession,  he  relinquished  temporarily  his  wishes,  and 
made  up  for  the  loss  by  a  resolution  to  save  enough  to  buy 
all  he  so  earnestly  coveted  and  needed. 

Ah,  how  he  yearned  at  times  for  the  close  sympathy  of 
one  other  hearty  —  tenderer,  purer,  gentler  than  his  own,  — 
to  which  to  communicate  all  his  hopes  and  plans,  and  on 
which  to  lay  half  the  burden  of  his  feelings  ! 

Those  were  but  momentary  desires  —  mere  shadows  of 
unexpressed  wishes,  that  some  day  might  come  to  take 
shape  and  form,  and  increase  the  store  of  his  happiness. 
Such  feelings,  perhaps,  would  never  have  asserted  them-^ 
selves,  except  there  had  somewhere  been  some  sweet  face, 
that  would  keep  looking  lovingly  into  his  own,  bidding  him 
take  courage  and  press  on,  hoping,  and  struggling,  and 
praying  for  the  prize  that  glittered  afar  off,  beyond  the 
turbid  waters  of  death,  upon  the  plains  of  the  new  land 
that  slept  in  the  sunshine  of  heaven. 

Sunday  came. 


X 

THE  FIRST    SABBATH.  47 

It  was  a  pleasant  day,  the  sun  rising  clear  and  golden. 
He  put  aside  the  curtains  of  his  windows  at  an  early  hour, 
and  sat  down  to  his  devotional  reading.  To  put  himself  in 
the  proper  frame  of  mind  for  his  day's  labor  —  that  was 
what  he  wanted;  to  call  about  his  thoughts  just  such  a 
class  of  feelings,  just  such  a  train  of  associations,  as  would 
give  them  most  effective  power  for  the  day;  to  banish 
worldliness,  and  shut  out  anxious  care ;  to  raise  his  heart 
upward  and  upward,  while  yet  it  was  let  down  by  its  golden 
thread  in  contact  with  the  hearts  of  those  over  whom  he 
was  called ;  to  exalt,  to  ennoble,  to  purify ;  to  see  his  way 
more  clearly ;  to  feel  that  the  bright  smile  of  God  rested 

^  on  his  own  heart ;  to  feel  that  his  lips  might  be  touched 
with  the  live  coal  from  the  altar,  —  this,  this  was  what  he 
labored  and  wrestled  with  himself  to  achieve. 

And  when  he  went  down  to  meet  the  family  at  the 
breakfast  board,  his  serene  and  calm  countenance  bore 
ample  testimony  to  the  manner  in  which  the  bright  Sab 
bath  morning  had  dawned  on  his  soul.  There  was  an 
expression  above  that  of  mere  humanity  upon  it,  as  if  he 
had  broken  through  the  clouds  and  mists  of  doubt,  and 
settled  his  gaze  fixedly  at  last  on  the  deep  and  fathomless 
blue  of  the  heaven  where  he  hoped  to  make  his  home. 

His  appearance  in  the  pulpit  was  the  signal  for  no  little- 
excitement  in  the  congregation,  as  it  very  naturally  would 

iv  be.  I  need  not  speak  of  the  eager  eyes  and  the  long-con 
tinued  whispers,  nor  of  the  strained  attention  when  he  first 
rose  in  his  place,  nor  the  relapse  into  something  more  like 


48  OUR   PARISH. 

comfort  afterwards.  These  phenomena  are  to  be  seen  in 
all  churches  on  occasions  like  this ;  because  they  are  exhib 
ited  in  so  candid  and  honest  a  way  in  country  churches,  it 
is  the  mistaken  opinion  that  they  are  to  be  found  nowhere 
else. 

The  congregation  was  quite  large,  considering  the  chilli 
ness  of  the  morning  and  the  distance  many  of  them  were 
obliged  to  come ;  but  it  was  not  a  common  occasion.  A 
new  minister  was  in  the  pulpit ;  and  the  plain  thinkers 
were  impatient  to  know  at  once  whether  they  were  to  like 
or  dislike  him,  or  to  be  indifferent  to  him  altogether. 

It  is  human  nature  —  and  by  no  means  necessarily  a 
weak  betrayal  either  —  to  be  impressed  with  fine  appear 
ances.  As  Mr.  Humphreys  stood  up  before  them,  there 
fore,  there  is  little  wonder  that  they  imperceptibly  felt 
impressed  with  his  looks.  Few  were  there  who  would 
have  failed  to  be  attracted  to  such  men.  In  the  first  place, 
his  countenance  wore  an  expression  of  high  and  living 
intellectuality.  A  little  pale  with  study,  —  though  this 
bracing  country  air  would  soon  send  the  blood  where  it  was 
needed,  —  he  challenged  the  sympathies  of  some,  perhaps, 
as  much  as  he  did  their  admiration. 

He  read  the  chapter  from  the  Bible  in  a  clear,  subdued 
voice,  as  if  its  import  thrilled  every  fibre  of  his  heart.  His 
tones  went  over  the  old  meeting  house  like  the  voice  of 
something  more  than  of  a  mere  man,  so  earnest  and  fervid 
were  they. 

Prayer  succeeded,  in  which,  for  the  first  time,  the  hearts 


THE   FIRST    SABBATH.  49 


of  this  people  went  up  with  his  own  to  Heaven.  He  com 
mended  them  and  himself  to  the  care  and  keeping  of  the 
Almighty,  and  besought  that  his  Spirit  might  breathe 
upon  them  all,  and  the  grace  of  his  love  unite  them  in 
bonds  that  time  could  never  break  asunder.  The  interests 
of  the  church  were  especially  commended  to  the  keeping 
of  Heaven,  and  blessings  besought  for  them  through  all 
time  to  come. 

Then  followed  singing  —  singing  by  a  well-trained  coun 
try  choir.  What  can  be  plesanter  to  the  simple  and  child 
like  heart  ?  What  can  be  a  richer  feast  for  the  meek  and 
devotional  spirit,  carrying  up  its  petition  and  praise  to 
gether  on  a  single  wave  of  exulting  song  to  the  regions  of 
immortality  ?  The  clergyman  joined  in  singing  the  hymn, 
his  feelings  mounting  as  on  wings  in  the  strong  enthusiasm, 
of  his  soul's  devotion. 

The  morning  sermon  was  from  the  text,  Luke  vi.  46 : 
"  And  why  call  ye  me  Lord,  Lord,  and  do  not  the  things 
which  I  say  ?  "  The  theme  was,  the  necessity  of  practical 
goodness  over  every  theory  and  all  the  mere  precepts 
that  may  be  advanced. 

The  method  of  his  treatment,  while  it  was  somewhat 
novel  and  original,  was  still  none  too  much  so  to  work  the 
effect  designed.  From  beginning  to  end,  however,  the 
burden  of  the  discourse  was  practical  goodness  —  practical 
goodness.  He  rebuked  the  multitudes  of  those  who  con 
formed  to  the  theory,  but  knew  nothing  of  the  substance  ; 
held  their  real  characters  up  to  the  light  of  God's  truth, 

* 


50  OUE  PARISH. 


and  showed  how  flimsy  and  transparent  they  werex  and 
enjoined  it  forcibly  and  most  earnestly  on  every  one  within 
his  hearing  to  remember  that  he  or  she  received  a  gift  at 
the  beginning,  which  must  in  some  way  be  employed,  and 
which  Christ  had  demanded  for  the  holy  and  exalted  ser 
vice  of  the  common  Father. 

The  intermission  was  of  an  hour's  duration.  The  most 
of  those  who  had  come  from  a  distance  gathered  in  the 
rooms  of  the  Widow  Thorn,  whose  house  was  but  a  few 
steps  off,  where  the  whole  subject  of  the  morning's  service 
was  duly  brought  forward  for  discussion.  This  was  the 
favorite  habit  of  those  who  frequented  the  place  of  a  Sun 
day  noon ;  and  not  infrequently  matters  were  then  and 
there  passed  upon  that  carried  their  influences  all  through 
the  succeeding  week;  or  items  of  general  news  collected 
and  collated  that  made  quite  a  scrap  book,  to  be  read  and 
read  over  again  hereafter. 

In  the  afternoon,  the  people  came  together  punctually  at 
the  hour.  Mr.  Humphreys  was  soon  in  his  place,  his  face 
expressive  of  some  anxiety,  yet,  on  the  whole,  as  calm  and 
placid  as  the  morning  had  witnessed  it. 

His  afternoon  text  was  from  a  verse  in  Revelation: 
"  And  there  shall  be  no  more  sea." 

Using  the  word  sea  as  a  figure  of  the  imagination,  he 
represented  that  all  were  on  the  wide  sea  of  life,  bound,  in 
hope  at  least,  to  one  common  haven.  This  waste  of  sea 
was  tempestuous,  and  difficult  of  navigation.  There  were 
islands  scattered  and  grouped  about  in  its  bosom,  some  of 


THE  FIRST   SABBATH.  61 

them  so  bright  and  sunny  that  little  was  the  wonder  they 
enticed  many  to  their  short  and  insecure  repose  by  the 
way ;  but  these  gems  of  the  sea  were  not  the  lands  of  the 
promised  rest.  That  was  where  waves  no  longer  beat ; 
where  the  roar  of  dashing  waters  was  no  more  to  be  heard; 
high  and  clear  from  all  reach  of  the  tempests;  on  sunny 
plains ;  by  pleasant  streams ;  and  in  the  midst  of  smiling 
pastures. 

This  voyage  of  life  he  depicted  with  all  the  skill  of  which 
he  was  master.  He  painted  the  vessels  in  which  one  and 
another  embarked  —  trusting  to  fortune  for  a  pleasant  sail, 
some  of  them,  and  some  careless  in  what  they  set  out,  if 
they  could  but  get  out  upon  the  water.  He  pictured  those 
scenes  of  horror  and  despair,  when  one  frail  craft  after 
another  is  swamped  in  the  billows,  — 

"Youth  at  the  prow,  and  pleasure  at  the  helm,"— • 

with  not  the  sign  of  a  compass  on  board,  no  knowledge  of 
the  waste,  heedlessness  having  control,  and  destruction  soon 
rising  to  claim  the  whole  precious  freight  for  itself,  and  still 

£  opening  its  jaws  for  other  victims  bent  on  just  the  same 
career.  He  dwelt  on  those  virtues  — of  prudence,  of  watch 
fulness,  of  complete  trust  in  the  great  God  of  the  storms  — 
(as  necessary  to  carry  one  through  the  voyage  in  safety,  and 
warned  those  whose  trust  was  in  nothing  but  their  youth, 
their  spirits,  and  their  individual  strength,  of  the  hazards 
upon  which  they  so  recklessly  were  venturing,  and  the 

•  whirlpools  that  were  yawning  to  draw  them  down  to  their 
early  ruin. 

i 


52  OUR  PARISH. 


" '  And  there  shall  be  no  more  sea/  "  repeated  he,  at  the 
close.  "  How  comforting  a  thought  to  the  weary,  tempest- 
tossed  mariner !  No  more  sea !  What  blessed  news  to  him 
whose  heart  has  buffeted  the  waves  of  misfortune,  and  mal 
ice,  and  affliction  all  his  days  !  What  a  sweet  assurance  to 
those  whose  faint  cries  had  always  gone  up  against  the 
storm,  like  that  of  the  unbelieving  Peter, '  Save,  Lord,  or 
we  perish  I " 

People  liked  the  new  minister  from  the  first.  In  a  body 
the  inhabitants  of  quiet  little  Brookboro'  received  him  into 
their  hearts,  and  inwardly  hoped  he  would  tarry  with  them 
while  his  labors  might  to  him  and  to  them  seem  profitable. 


CHAPTER  V. 

REMINISCENCES. 

I  HAVE  been  describing  the  event  of  Mr.  Humphreys' 
arrival  at  Brookboro',  together  with  the  first  impression  his 
appearance  created  among  the  people.  If  the  kind  reader 
I  will  allow,  I  will  in  a  single  chapter  give  a  sketch  of  his 
earlier  days,  of  his  friends,  and  of  the  circumstances  with 
which  he  found  himself  now  surrounded. 

It  is  so  true  that  there  is  no  pleasure  in  this  world  with 
out  some  pain,  no  goodness  unless  closely  yoked  with  a 
power  of  evil,  no  flattering  promise  without  a  worm  in  the 
bud  to  gnaw  straight  to  its  heart.  It  is  so  ordered  of 
Heaven,  all  for  the  wisest  and  best  of  purposes,  that  the 
two  principles  of  good  and  ill,  of  joy  and  sorrow,  of  light 
and  darkness,  shall  not  be  set  over  against  one  another,  but 
be  so  intimately  mingled  and  mixed  together  —  one  in- 
twining  the  other  with  a  show  even  of  affection  —  as  that 
the  influence  of  the  better  shall  be  able,  in  time,  to  eradicate 
that  of  the  worse,  and  out  of  contrasts  and  contrarieties  of 
the  most  violent  character  a  true  and  beautiful  order  shall 

(53) 


54  OUR   PAEISH. 

be  established,  promising  to  endure  when  every  thing  ma 
terial  shall  have  faded  away. 

Little,  perhaps,  would  any  one  have  thought  that  Mr. 
Humphreys'  situation  was  apropos  to  this  observation ;  yet, 
in  one  sense,  it  certainly  was.  Let  us  look  back  upon  his* 
history. 

His  father  was  a  lawyer,  in  the  town  of  Briarfield,  — 
not  more  than  sixty  or  seventy  miles  distant,  —  a  man  of 
wealth  and  standing,  proud  and  imperious,  impatient  of 
another's  will  than  his  own,  and  determined  in  all  cases,  if 
within  the  limits  of  possibility,  to  carry  forward  his  indi 
vidual  plans  and  projects  to  a  successful  issue.  To  be 
balked  in  any  thing  he  had  set  his  mind  upon,  was  to  have 
his  fiercest  resentment  kindled  against  the  one  through 
whose  instrumentality  such  a  result  was  wrought.  He  had 
been  quite  successful  in  his  professional  pursuits,  having 
built  up  for  himself  a  name  widely  known  and  respected, 
and  amassed  fortune  enough  to  place  his  family  in  circum 
stances  of  the  greatest  comfort  and  independence. 

He  was  not  a  pious  man,  although  at  times  his  heart 
betrayed  outwardly  symptoms  of  a  religious  tone  of  thought 
and  feeling.  To  attend  church  regularly  every  Sabbath, 
and  lend  his  countenance  by  his  presence  to  the  institutions 
of  religion ;  to  observe  with  strictness  all  the  forms  and 
ceremonies  that  a  high  public  morality  required ;  to  be 
charitable  on  occasion,  as  much  because  others  were  as  for 
any  specific  feeling  that  could  be  said  to  move  him  to  duty ; 
to  follow  his  pursuits  strictly  j  to  be  a  peaceable  neighbor 


REMINISCENCES.  55 

and  a  good  citizen,  —  this  was  his  standard  for  a  man's  life, 
and  it  was  that  to  which  he  had  endeavored  steadily  to 
conform  his  own  conduct  and  actions. 

Briarfield  was  a  sweet  village,  and  Esquire  Humphreys' 
fciansion  was  the  finest  of  any  in  it.  It  was  a  somewhat 
spacious  building,  standing  back  a  little  from  the  street, 
with  a  beautiful  lawn-like  yard,  set  about  with  trees  and 
shrubs,  and  walks  neatly  bordered  with  box,  with  four  large 
rock  maples  spreading  their  dark  shadows  over  the  edge 
of  the  road,  and  seeming  to  half  hide  the  house  in  summer 
with  their  deep  masses  of  foliage  —  a  house  quite  after  the 
olden  style  of  architecture,  with  a  wide  hall,  and  large 
chimneys,  and  roomy  chambers,  with  large,  deep  fireplaces, 
and  large  beams  running  across  the  ceiling,  and  the  old- 
style,  inside  shutters ;  a  mansion,  in  short,  where  one  could, 
at  this  day,  live  over  again  Ihe  associations  and  feelings  of 
the  past,  dreaming  in  the  ancient  chambers,  wandering 

y 

thoughtfully  through  the  high  rooms,  and  holding  pleasant 
companionship  with  the  fancies  and  memories  that  peopled 
garret,  and  chamber,  and  hall. 

Here  had  William,  the  young  clergyman,  been  born.  I£ 
any  place  seemed  home  to  him,  it  certainly  was  this.  Here 
he  had  passed  the  bright  and  careless  days  of  his  youth ; 
and  here  were  all  those  old,  familiar  objects  with  which  his 
feelings  were  so  closely  intertwined. 

There  had  been  but  two  children  —  William,  and  his 
younger  brother,  James.  Different  as  possible,  when  boys, 
in  nearly  all  their  qualities  and  charac^ristics,  the  distance 


56  OUR  PARISH. 

between  them  was  still  wider  now  that  manhood  had  de 
veloped  their  natures.  William,  when  a  boy,  was  gentle 
in  his  disposition,  more  like  his  mother  than  his  father. 
He  was  thoughtful,  beyond  what  was  common  in  one  of 
his  years,  for  every  body  and  every  thing.  Winning  ny 
his  ways,  and  seeking  rather  to  be  loved  by  others  than 
merely  to  make  some  decided  impression  upon  them,  he 
seemed  more  the  girl  in  his  nature  than  the  boy,  though 
there  was  no  lack  of  proper  manly  traits,  which,  in  abun 
dant  time,  would  assert  their  part  and  influence  in  his 
character. 

James  was  in  all  respects  the  opposite.  He  was  only 
two  years  and  a  half  younger  than  his  brother,  yet  he 
looked  his  elder  by  more  years  even  than  that.  He  was 
bold  and  ready  in  every  emergency,  with  more  masculine 
manners,  and  much  less  regard  for  the  feelings  or  the 
opinions  of  others.  His  boyish  sports  were  different.  He 
was  ruder,  and  liked  noisier  amusements,  and  rarely  was 
found  quiet  or  backward  where  any  thing  capable  of  inter 
esting  him  was  going  on.  He  sometimes  took  a  secret 
delight  in  teasing  William  by  trying  the  placidity  of  his 
temper,  and  throwing  obstacles  in  his  way  when  he  least 
expected  them.  At  school  and  at  home  it  was  ever  the 
same.  The  same  marked  difference  divided  these  two 
youthful  characters,  that,  as  years  came  on,  would  mature 
them  into  characters  more  widely  different  still. 

If  either  of  them  could  be  said  to  be  the  favorite  son 
of  his  mother,  Willi§m  was  that  one.  She  saw  in  him  the 


*    .*£* 

REMINISCENCES.  57 

reproduction  of  her  own  finer  feelings  and  sentiments. 
She  watched  closely  the  unfolding  of  the  flower,  and  was 
made  glad  to  find  it  wore  tints  and  colors  that  had  long 
been  the  favorite  ones  of  her  own  heart.  It  is  an  inde 
scribable  feeling,  this  that  attends  upon  a  mother's  study  of 
the  character  of  her  child  ;  that  swells  in  her  heart,  as  she 
searches  carefully  in  the  yet  unformed  character,  and  finds 
new  treasuffes  and  new  developments  each  day  ;  that  brings 
tears  to  her  eyes,  as  she  discovers  one  and  another  trait 
that  attracts  all  her  warmest  sympathy,  because  she  knows 
that  same  trait  to  be  thoroughly  her  own. 

Boyhood  gave  and  left  them  individual  characters  in 
their  native  village.  They  went  through  the  regular 
course  of  schooling  together.  They  studied  at  the  same 
books,  and  contended  for  the  same  advancements  in  their 
classes.  William  was  much  the  better  scholar,  however,  as 
he  was  the  more  persevering  student.  He  graduated  from 
the  village  academy,  well  prepared  to  enter  college,  and 
take  a  high  stand  among  those  with  whom  he  would  be 
called  to  associate  and  compete.- 

This  his  proud-minded  father  knew,  and  this  he  carefully 
kept  in  his  mind.  It  had  long  been  his  plan  to  send  Wil 
liam  to  college,  as  it  was  likewise  his  purpose  to  educate 
him  to  follow  the  pursuits  of  his  own  profession ;  yet,  while 
he  kept  the  former  continually  before  his  son,  he  was  ju 
dicious  enough  to  refer  to  the  latter  only  by  occasional  and 
timely  hints,  that  might  be  taken  in  a  serious  sense,  or 
might  not  be  thought  to  mean  any  thing  at  all.  It  was 

*,~ 


58  OUR  PARISH. 

much  too  soon  yet  for  William  to  have  thoughts  of  a  pro 
fession  thrust  upon  him ;  and  his  father  well  knew  it.  Hia 
mind  had  not  taken  any  particular  bent,  so  that  his  feelings 
and  his  resolution  were  ready  to  follow  no  prepared  course. 
If  he  did  have  secret  inclinations  towards  any  calling,  his 
father,  at  least,  knew  it  not.  No  one  did.  The  boy  hardly 
dared  believe,  as  yet,  that  he  entertained  them  himself. 

But  before  his  school  days  were  over,  and  abfcut  a  year 
and  a  half  before  he  thought  he  should  be  ready  to  enter 
college,  William  had  the  great  misfortune  to  be  bereft  of 
her  whose  guidance  and  influence  were  invaluable  to  a 
nature  just  like  his.  It  was  a  terrible  event  for  the  whole 
household ;  as  well,  too,  for  the  church  and  the  village* 
Mrs.  Humphreys  was  a  woman  of  the  most  fervent  and 
exalted  piety,  and  had  held  the  heart  of  her  family  to  a 
religious  tone  of  feeling  at  times  when  there  might  have 
been  no  such  characteristic  in  their  entire  nature.  She 
won  her  way  by  the  practice  of  those  gentle  virtues  that 
betoken  the  truly  pious  woman,  coloring  her  daily  life  with 
hues  such  as  no  merely  earthly  light  could  bestow,  holding 
forth  for  the  eyes  of  her  husband  and  children  an  example 
of  great  meekness,  and  trust,  and  humility,  and  endeavor 
ing,  rather  by  a  course  of  religious  conduct  than  by  pre 
cepts  alone,  to  impress  upon  them  the  beauty  and  the  peace, 
as  well  as  the  necessity  and  safety,  of  a  life  that  was  de 
voted  to  Heaven. 

It  was  she  who  first  taught  her  children  to  pray.  O  the 
deep  and  lasting  influence  that  a  mother  exerts  on  all  the 


KEMINISCENCES.  59 

busy  and  troubled  afterlife !  How  vividly  come  up  again 
those  moments  to  the  man's  eyes  when  he  used  to  kneel  at 
his  mother's  side  and  go  with  her  to  the  throne  of  grace ! 
How  plainly  again  in  after  years  are  heard  those  same  saint 
like  tones  that  once  sunk  so  deeply  into  the  heart,  and 
drew  the  child  as  by  syllables  of  love  into  the  path  of 
righteousness  and  well  doing !  Is  there  a  memory  in  all 
the  life  of  a  man  sweeping  over  heart  and  brain  with  such 
quick  and  lasting  power,  rousing  the  thoughts  from  worldly 
lethargy  to  loftier  points  of  activity,  and  bringing  out,  in  a 
single  moment  as  it  were,  the  whole  of  the  goodness  and 
tenderness  of  the  soul  to  the  surface  —  like  the  memory 
of  a  mother's  prayer,  when  the  man  was  the  innocent  child, 
sheltered  and  caressed  by  her  love  ? 

William  had  staid  home  from  school  that  day,  because 
he  thought  he  might  be  of  service  to  his  mother ;  and 
passed  his  time  in  watching  by  her  bed,  and  running  to 
perform  the  trifling  errands,  and  weeping.  The  tears,  how 
ever,  were  shed  in  secret.  He  could  not  have  pained  her 
he  loved  so  much  as  by  betraying  the  whole  of  his  grief. 

For  many  weeks  she  had  been  sick ;  and  at  first  no  one 
thought  of  the  issue  to  which  her  disease  was  tending.  Mr. 
Humphreys  was  anxious  and  attentive ;  he  let  no  occasion 
go  by  unimproved  when  he  could  either  allay  her  suffering 
or  add  to  her  happiness.  The  doctor  entertained  no  im 
mediate  fears,  but  hoped  that,  with  careful  nursing,  all 
would  finally  come  out  well. 

Yet  Mrs.  Humphreys  herself  had  a  different  presenti- 


60  OUR  PARISH. 

ment  from  the  beginning.  A  belief  had  at  an  early  period 
of  her  sickness  taken  possession  of  her  mind  that  she  would 
never  recover.  It  did  not  seem  to  depress  or  prey  on  her 
spirits  at  all,  nor  to  render  her  conversation  in  the  least 
degree  unpleasant  and  gloomy.  It  was  with  a  cheerful 
courage  that  she  faced  the  worst,  just  as  calm  and  collected 
at  the  certain  approach  of  her  end  as  if  she  were  only  to 
set  out  on  a  short  journey,  where  there  were  beloved  friends 
to  meet  and  greet  her  at  the  close. 

On  this  particular  day  she  had  failed  perceptibly  and 
quite  rapidly  from  an  early  hour  in  the  morning.  The 
doctor  was  at  the  house  nearly  all  the  time.  The  tables  in 
the  sick  chamber  were  covere'd  thickly  with  vials,  and  bot 
tles,  and  teacups,  each  with  different  mixtures,  and  all  to 
bring  her  some  slight  relief  from  her  suffering.  The  at 
mosphere  was  close  and  stifled,  as  nothing  but  the  air  of 
the  sick  room  can  be  used  to  describe  it.  The  curtains 
were  down,  or  nearly  so,  and  the  room  darkened.  All 
about  the  house  brooded  a  silence  that  was  painful. 

Mrs.  Humphreys  had  been  talking  calmly  and  happily 
with  her  husband,  who  sat  at  her  bedside  holding  her  hand. 
He  was  deeply  affected,  although  his  heart  was  unwilling 
to  believe  that  this  endeared  bond  of  earthly  affection  must 
be  broken.  The  tears  stood  in  his  eyes,  and  that  was  all ; 
he  never  wept ;  he  never  gave  way  to  violent  exhibitions 
of  feeling.  His  breast  heaved,  as  if  he  were  going  through 
a  mighty  struggle  with  himself  to  yield  up  this  precious 
partner  so  soon.  He  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  face  of  his 


REMINISCENCES.  61 

wife  —  never  speaking,  only  gazing  in  a  rapt  and  deep 
silence.  And  she  continued  talking  with  him  tenderly  and 
seriously  of  the  things  of  the  world  she  was  about  entering, 
and  comparing  their  worth  with  the  worthlessness  of  all 
things  here,  and  beseeching  him  in  her  most  earnest  and 
saint-like  manner  to  think  more  of  his  destiny  and  of 'the 
vast  future  that  stretched  before  him,  and  strive  patiently 
to  run  the  race  towards  the  goal  of  life.  She  was  perfectly 
self-possessed  through  it  all ;  he  was  the  one  who  displayed 
the  most  emotion.  Her  anxiety  and  his  were  of  two  en 
tirely  different  natures.  She  was  minding  the  high,  he 
only  the  low,  estate.  There  was  the  difference  that  dwells 
between  things  earthly  and  heavenly. 

She  motioned  for  her  boys  to  be  called  in,  that  she  might 
address  her  dying  words  to  them.  Mr.  Humphreys  went 
out  immediately  and  sent  in  William  to  his  mother.  The 
maid  ran  over  to  the  academy  for  James. 

And  now  William  and  his  mother  were  alone  ;  alone  to 
gether  in  this  chamber  of  sickness  and  death.  He  came  in 
and  stood  by  her  bedside.  The  moment  he  caught  her 
dying  eye  and  her  faint  smile  his  feelings  overcame  him 
utterly,  and  he  buried  his  head  in  the  pillow  and  wept. 
For  a  moment  his  mother  did  not  attempt  to  control  him ; 
it  was  better  that  the  tears  so  long  pent  up  should  finally 
flow  and  relieve  him. 

"  William,"  said  she  at  length,  laying  her  thin  hand  on 
his  head,  "  my  son,  you  must  listen  to  all  I  have  to  say 
to  you  now,  for  you  will  very  soon  be  without  a  mother. 


62  otm  PARISH. 


Do  not  weep,  my  child ;  it  is  for  our  good  that  these  afflic 
tions  are  sent  to  us  all.  Perhaps  you  will  be  of  more  ser* 
vice  in  our  common  Father's  cause  if  I  am  taken  from 
you  now.  I  might  be  a  hinderance  to  you.  My  love  might 
take  away  from  your  love  for  God.  Think  of  this,  my 
son,  when  I  am  gone,  and  try  to  think  that  you  can  love 
your  heavenly  Father  the  more  since  your  mother  haa 
been  taken  into  his  fold  above." 

"  0  mother ! "  exclaimed  the  agonized  boy,  "  how  can  I 
live  after  you  are  dead  ?  How  can  I  ?  "  And  he  tried  to 
look  at  her  through  eyes  that  were  swimming  with  tears. 

She  soothed  him  with  a  voice  and  worcjs  yet  more  pleas 
ant  than  before,  and,  still  keeping  her  hand  upon  his  hands, 
talked  to  him,  in  a  way  he  could  understand,  of  the  real 
aims  one  should  set  before  him  in  life,  and  the  motives  that 
ought  to  breathe  in  his  conduct. 

"You  were  not  placed  here,  "William,"  continued  she, 
"  simply  for  the  gratification  of  your  own  desires  and  pleas 
ures.  You  are  not  your  own  director  and  master.  You  must 
not  expect  only  to  pursue  your  own  plans  and  projects. 
There  is  another  than  yourself,  who  has  endowed  you  with 
all  these  faculties  which  you  possess,  and  who  has  intended 
and  promised  that  you  should  earn  happiness  only  by  the 
right  use  of  them.  There  is  no  happiness,  that  is  real  and 
true  happiness,  in  the  mere  following  of  your  own  desires ; 
none  in  only  selfish  pursuits ;  none  in  merely  earthly 
pleasures.  You  can  be  happy  only  as  you  o^ey  the  wishes 
of  your  Father  and  make  happy  all  around  you.  This 


REMINISCENCES.  63 

is  every  one's  mission.  It  is  yours.  And  you  do  wrong 
if  you  think  to  avoid  it,  or  wiah  that  you  might  get  your 
reward  without  your  labor." 

She  paused  a  moment  for  strength,  and  then  concluded :  — 

"  William,  you  must  learn  to  do  without  a  mother,  sad  as 
it  is.  You  must  learn  to  cast  all  your  cares  upon,  and  carry 
all  your  griefs  to,  your  heavenly  Father.  He  will  tenderly 
watch  over  you.  If  you  are  scourged  and  corrected  at 
times,  search  your  heart  so  much  the  closer,  and  try  to 
understand  .what  it  is  that  most  needs  rooting  out.  O 
William,  my  son  !  if  I  could  but  die  in  the  assurance 
that  you  would  devote  your  life  to  the  service  of  Heaven, 
to  spreading  the  knowledge  of  the  blessings  and  the  prom 
ises,  how  much  more  happy  would  be  the  death  bed  to  me 
then ! " 

William  could  only  weep  at  her  words ;  he  offered  no 
reply.  They  were  sinking  deeply,  deeply  within  his  young 
heart. 

And  James  came  in  ;  and  to  him  his  dying  mother  ad 
dressed  similar  words  of  love  and  pious  consolation.  She 
pointed  out  to  him  the  true  way  to  life,  and  besought  him 
to  walk  forward  in  that  until  called  to  meet  her  in  happi 
ness  again.  The  scene  was  affecting  beyond  description  — •  * 
ghe  so  calm,  and  the  others  weeping  and  sobbing  as  if  their 
hearts  would  break  with  the  bereavement. 

Alas !  alas !  few  greater  losses  are  there  in  this  world  for 
a  boy  than  the  loss  of  his  mother.  He  knows  it  not  at  the 
time,  broken  hearted  as  he  may  appear.  The  spirits  gather 


64  otra  PARISH. 

themselves  again  soon,  and  the  sore  wound  in  the  feelings 
closes  and  heals ;  but  the  sweet  and  secret  influence  is 
gone,  as  if  a  part  of  the  nature  were  blotted  out ;  the  deep 
and  silent  power  is  taken  away  that  would  have  easily 
moulded  his  plastic  character  as  it  pleased,  and  fitted  it  for 
any  of  the  places  that  are  most  valuable  in  their  effects 
upon  the  world's  people. 

It  was  just  at  sunset,  at  the  close  of  a  clear  and  bland 
day  in  the  spring,  when  the  dying  wife  and  mother  called 
faintly  for  more  air  and  to  be  lifted  in  the  bed.  They 
raised  a  window  and  fanned  her.  She  cast  her  eyes 
around  upon  them  all,  —  husband,  children,  and  attendants, 
—  a  sweet  smile  broke  out  over  her  face,  her  lips  mur 
mured  something  of  "  home  "  and  "  heaven,"  and  her  breath 
ceased.  There  were  no  strugglings,  no  dying  groans,  no 
painful  throes.  All  was  as  placid  and  unruffled  as  the 
surface  of  a  sweet  dream.  The  life  had  not  died  out ;  it 
had  only  passed  away.  Earth  was  exchanged  for  heaven. 

They  stood  for  a  moment  looking  fixedly  upon  her  coun 
tenance.  There  might  have  been  a  gleam  of  hope  that 
they  were  closely  watching.  But  it  flickered,  and  fluttered, 
and  vanished.  She  was  dead.  And  a  husband  was  with 
out  a  wife,  and  children  without  a  mother  ! 

When,  a  year  and  a  half  later,  therefore,  in  obedience  to 
the  original  intentions  of  his  father,  William  entered  col 
lege,  it  was  with  a  heart  still  shaded  with  sadness  for  the 
loss  of  his  mother,  and  spirits  sensibly  toned  down  to  a 
temper  of  thoughtfulness  and  sobriety. 


REMINISCENCES.  65 


He  soon  took  a  high  stand  in  his  class,  and  steadily  kept 
it.  In  the  recitation  room,  in  the  society  rooms,  at  the 
club,  and  among  his  instructors,  he  was  every  where  known 
as  an  indefatigable  student  and  the  conscientious  compan 
ion.  His  talents  were  unanimously  acknowledged,  and 
that  without  envy.  This  was  much  more  than  was  usual. 
He  bore  off  some  of  the  first  prizes,  and  apparently  without 
effort  or  exertion.  And  it  came  to  be  understood  that  his 
ambition  had  so  little  selfishness  about  it,  that  others  yield 
ed  up  their  claims  before  his  with  a  cheerful  assent  to  his 
superior  merit,  that  was  worth  far  more  to  him  than  all  the 
prizes  and  marks  of  honor  in  all  the  colleges  in  the  world. 

Carrying  ever  in  his  heart  the  impressions  created  at 
the  death  of  his  mother,  and  remembering  every  syllable  of 
the  last  words  she  uttered  in  his  hearing,  he  made  it  his 
practice  to  attend  regularly  on  all  the  religious  meetings 
both  of  his  own  class  and  of  the  students  in  a  body ;  at 
which  times  he  felt  that  influences  were  working  their  way 
into  his  character  that  had  the  effect  greatly  to  purify  his 
ambition  and  turn  his  thoughts  into  channels  in  which  they 
had  not  been  in  the  habit  of  directly  moving.  The  custom 
was  a  proper  one,  and  he  continued  it  till  it  became  a 
downright  pleasure.  He  would  sooner  think  of  foregoing 
any  other  pleasure  than  of  relinquishing  a  privilege  he 
esteemed  so  highly. 

All  through  his  course  at  college  his  conduct  was  marked 
by  the  same  thoughtful  sobriety  and  conscientiousness.  He 
kept  his  place  as  a  scholar,  and  even  advanced  upon  his 
5 


66  OUR   PARISH. 

first  standing,  others  falling  gradually  behind.  And  during 
the  last  year  of  the  collegiate  course,  he  united  with  the 
church.  He  had  written  to  his  father  of  his  feelings,  in 
the  course  of  other  matters,  but  the  latter  made  no  other 
than  a  general  and  evasive  reply  to  that  subject.  It  was 
one  he  had  never  been  in  the  habit  of  talking  upon  to  his 
family,  and  he  felt  unwilling  to  begin  with  it  now.  So 
William  Humphreys  was  left  to  his  own  strength  and  the 
guidance  of  Him  before  whom  he  laid  all  his  wants. 

Ah,  it  was  so  sweet  now  to  think  of  his  mother,  and  to 
think  that  she  still  watched  him  with  the  eyes  of  her  saint 
ed  spirit  from  above ;  to  feel  that  his  sympathies  moved 
now  in  an  unbroken  circle,  and  not  forward  and  backward, 
forward  and  backward  in  the  segment  they  only  had  trav 
ersed  before!  His  heart  was  healthier,  and  its  feelings 
deeper,  and  broader,  and  truer.  And  this  was  but  the 
beginning  of  this  long  life  of  serenity  and  peace. 

He  took  one  of  the  highest  honors  at  commencement, 
though  little  comparatively  cared  he  for  the  mere  triumph 
connected  with  such  a  gift.  He  felt  that  his  ambition  was 
above  it.  His  aims  were  set  higher  than  on  the  pinnacles 
of  temporary  fame,  however  much  they  might  be  gilded 
for  the  eyes  of  others.  A  complete  and  thorough  renova 
tion  of  his  character  had  been  effected.  Through  God's 
grace  he  had  come  off  more  than  a  conqueror. 

His  father  was  present  to  listen  to  his  performance  on 
commencement  day  with  a  heart  buoyant  with  pride.  So 
that  his  son  did  creditably,  not  less  to  his  father  than  to 


REMINISCENCES.  67 

himself,  he  was  satisfied.  He  came  there  expressly  to 
partake  in  the  triumph.  It  was  a  scene  that  fed  little  else 
than  his  pride ;  and  the  maw  of  this  monster  was  fre 
quently  insatiable. 

The  excitement  finally  past,  the  diploma  received  from 
the  hands  of  the  venerable  president,  the  old  rooms  de 
serted,  and  the  home  spot  once  more  regained,  William 
Humphreys  resolved  in  his  mind  the  next  step,  upon  which 
he  had  long  ago  determined.  He  had  not  acquainted  his 
parent  with  it,  because  that  parent  seemed  hitherto'  deaf 
to  every  thing  he  had  to  communicate  on  the  subject.  Yet, 
although  his  purpose  had  been  kept  to  himself,  it  had  by 
no  means  lain  dormant  in  his  breast.  He  had  formed  it 
with  care,  and  after  patient  thought  and  prayerful  watch- 
ings.  He  could  not  think  of  entering  upon  it  with  haste, 
nor  until  long  deliberation  had  finally  settled  upon  its  pro 
priety  in  his  mind. 

So  after  many  weeks  had  elapsed,  and  the  temporary 
excitement  incident  to  commencement  day  and  the  break 
ing  up  of  all  the  old  college  ties  had  in  some  degree  abated, 
the  young  man  took  occasion,  one  afternoon,  to  enter  the 
library  where  his  father  was  engaged  in  running  over  his 
books,  and  lay  before  him  all  his  intentions. 

His  mind  was  settled  on  studying  for  the  ministry.  He 
had  given  the  subject  patient  and  prayerful  thought,  and 
now  his  resolution  was  taken.  It  was  proper,  he  premised, 
that  a  resolution  of  so  much  importance  be  communicated 
to  his  father  without  further  delay. 

. 


68  OUR  PAEISH. 

"  A  minister ! "  —  tlaat  was  the  first  ejaculation  of  Mr. 
Humphreys,  as  he  turned  round  on  his  son. 

For  some  time  he  was  dumb,  possibly  with  the  shock 
such  a  declaration  had  given  his  more  worldly  and  selfish 
pride. 

"I  had  never  thought  of  such  a  thing!"  said  he,  at 
length.  "  I  had  all  along  designed  you  for  the  law.  You 
were  to  step  right  into  the  practice  I  have  been  for  years 
accumulating.  I  meant  that  you  should  commence  reading 
as  soon  after  you  graduated  as  possible.  A  minister! 
No  —  no  —  NO  ! "  And  again  he  relapsed  into  silence. 

But  William,  while  he  certainly  deferred  to  every  rea 
sonable  wish  of  his  parent,  felt  that  his  own  individual 
convictions  were  too  firmly  rooted  to  be  shaken  either  by 
the  pride  or  the  passion  of  another.  In  almost  any  thing 
else,  whether  whim  or  wish,  he  would  have  been  trebly 
glad  to  gratify  his  father ;  but  in  this  he  could  not. 

And  they  remained  in  the  library  for  at  least  two  hours, 
talking  the  subject  over,  William  ever  appealing  to  the 
better  nature  of  his  parent,  and  the  latter  insisting  on 
nothing  but  the  gratification  of  his  own  pride  and  pleasure. 

They  separated,  Mr.  Humphreys  in  a  fit  of  uncontrolla 
ble  rage,  declaring  that  he  never  would  have  been  at  the 
expense  of  sending  his  son  to  college  had  he  foreseen  this 
sudden  overthrow  of  his  dearest  hopes,  and  boldly  threat 
ening  to  cut  off  all  future  acquaintance  with  him  if  he  per 
sisted  in  thwarting  his  plans;  William  seemingly  more 
serene  and  self-possessed  than  when  he  first  entered  the 


. 

REMINISCENCES.  69 

*- 

,  begging  his  father  to  listen  to  the  voice  of  reason, 
not  to  be  carried  away  by  his  impulses,  and  not  to  be 
ruined  by  his  foolish  pride. 

But  the  purpose  of  the  son  was  not  of  a  nature  to  be 
overthrown  or  put  aside.  It  was  not  obstinate,  though  it 
was  firm.  And  the  pride  of  the  father  was  a  bow  that  had 
never  yet  been  taught  to  bend ;  and  to  bend  now  was  what 
it  would  not  do.  The  consequence  is  briefly  related. 
Unless  William  relinquished  his  determination,  he  must 
leave  his  father's  house,  and  never  expect  to  call  it  home 
again.  More  than  this,  he  would  be  cut  of  from  all  share 
of  the  inheritance  that  would  otherwise  belong  to  him. 
For  the  latter  he  cared  really  little.  It  was  not  so  easy 
to  think  seriously  of  leaving  forever  the  dear  old  spot 
where  he  was  born,  where  he  had  passed  his  childhood 
years,  where  he  had  first  learned  to  love  God,  and  where 
he  had  seen  his  own  mother  die. 

Mr.  Humphreys,  however,  was  immovable.  While  his 
son's  presence  daily  added  to  his  thoughts  of  disappoint 
ment  and  his  feelings  of  chagrin,  his  obstinacy  found  abun 
dant  fuel  with  which  to  feed  itself;  when  he  should  be 
gone,  this  flame  might  die  gradually  away,  and  leave  him 
the  use  at  least  of  his  reason.  So  William  argued ;  and 
he  resolved  to  take  his  departure  as  soon  as  possible. 

Let  the  remainder  be  told  hi  a  few  words.  He  procured 
an  academy  in  a  town  some  twenty  miles  off,  and  entered 
upon  his  new  duties  of  preceptor.  The  name  of  the  town 
was  Thornton.  Here  he  taught  for  nearly  three  years, 
studying  theology  with  the  village  minister  the  while.  At 


70  OUR  PARISH. 

the  end  of  that  time  he  commenced  preaching,  having  duly 
obtained  a  license  —  at  first  in  such  churches  as  did  not 
enjoy  stated  preaching,  and  finally  at  Brookboro',  where 
he  had  been  hired  for  a  whole  year. 

In  all  this  period  he  had  never  once  been  home.  Hia 
father  and  brother  were  strangers  to  him,  the  latter  through 
no  cause  of  dislike,  but  simply  to  humor  the  passion  of  a 
parent  whose  whole  estate  was  to  come  into  his  possession. 
And  this  was  the  end  of  that  brotherhood,  begun  far  back 
in  infancy,  continued  through  years  of  innocent  childhood, 
and  at  last  sundered  like  a  bond  that  was  held  together  by 
nothing  stronger  than  money,  and  prejudice,  and  passion. 
O  ye  proud  and  unreasonable  fathers,  who  seek  to  carve 
out  for  yourselves  the  fortunes  and  the  eternal  destinies  of 
your  sons,  pause  ere  you  lay  rude  hands  on  work  that  only 
God,  the  Father  of  both  parent  and  child,  can  do.  Arro 
gate  not  to  yourselves  the  part  of  One  who  sees  not  as 
man  sees,  whose  thoughts  are  wide  and  high  as  eternity, 
whose  plans  were  laid  before  the  years  were,  or  before 
existence  with  you  began. 

This  was  the  outline  of  the  young  clergyman's  life.  He 
had  been  called  to  pass  through  much;  but  how  many 
bravely  endure  and  court  the  endurance  of  more!  In 
the  quiet  little  village  of  Brookboro'  he  had  finally  begun 
seriously  his  lifelong  work.  It  might  be  — he  knew  not  — 
that  here  he  was  to  perform  his  entire  labor,  and  here,  at 
last,  surrender  the  trust  back  to  Him  from  whom  it  had 
been  received.  He  would  labor  as  if  this  was  his  only 
chosen  field. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

MISS  BUSS. 

ME.  HUMPHREYS  came  down  from  his  chamber  to  tea 
one  afternoon,  and  Lucy  presented  herself  as  he  opened 
the  door.  The  clergyman  saw  that  there  was  a  person  in 
the  room  to  whom  he  was  a  stranger,  and  naturally  threw 
a  glance  back  to  Lucy1. 

She  looked  rather  roguish,  and  her  mouth  betrayed  a 
half  smile. 

"Miss  Buss  —  Mr.  Humphreys,"  said  she,  nodding  in 
the  direction  of  her  visitor. 

"  Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Humphreys,"  said  that  individual, 
rising  with  quite  an  abrupt  start  from  her  chair,  and  step 
ping  forth  briskly  with  extended  hand.  "Happy  to  see 
you,  sir.  Well,  I  s'pose  ?  Happy  to  see  you,  sir." 

Our  little  parish  was  a  mosaic  of  individual  characters, 
and  I  shall  be  allowed  to  bring  them  all  forward  in  the 
order  these  simple  annals  seem  to  require.  I  shall  try  to 
sketch  only  after  nature,  without  a  dream  of  malice  or  a 
thought  of  levity.  In  the  limits  of  this  diminutive  circle 

» 


72  OUR   PARISH. 


were  to  be  found  all  the  hopes,  and  plans,  and  motives,  and 
activity  common  to  humanity  every  where.  The  daily  and 
yearly  experiences  of  these  simple  hearts,  therefore,  may 
be  taken  as  an  epitome  of  the  experience  of  human  hearts 
the  world  over.  They  are  really  so.  And  these  annals 
are  little  less  than  pressed  leaves  in  the  book  of  recollection. 

Mr.  Humphreys  sat  down  for  a  moment  by  the  hearth 
before  the  deacon  came  in.  Mrs.  Burroughs  was  already 
pouring  the  tea. 

"  Sit  up  to  the  table,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Humphreys," 
said  the  matron.  "  Mr.  Burroughs  told  us  not  to  wait  for 
him  if  he  wasn't  here  by  this  time." 

"Sit  -here,  Miss  Buss,  if  you  please,"  directed  Lucy, 
placing  a  chair  for  her  across  the  table  from  Mr.  Hum 
phreys,  while  she  appropriated  her  father's  place  to  herself. 

"  Yes,"  replied  that  lady,  quite  stiffly,  as  she  walked  still 
more  stiffly  to  her  seat,  throwing  a  bundle  of  arrowy 
glances  at  Mr.  Humphreys  by  the  way. 

A  blessing  was  besought,  and  Miss  Buss  proceeded  to 
adjust  her  handkerchief  in  her  lap  exactly  to  suit  her; 
while  at  every  convenient  or  inconvenient  moment  she 
looked  over  at  Mr.  Humphreys,  and  then  dropped  her  eyes 
innocently  to  her  lap  again.  When  it  was  shaken  out  of 
its  folds  just  as  she  thought  it  should  be,  she  took  her  cup 
of  tea  from  Mrs.  Burroughs,  and  instantly  grappled  with 
her  handkerchief,  raising  it  to  her  mouth,  and  coughing 
quite  softly  behind  it,  and  throwing  another  glance  or  two 
Over  at  Mr.  Humphreys. 

«  Will  you  take  a  biscuit  ?  "  said  Lucy,  passing  them. 


MISS  BUSS.  73 

Thank  you ;  I'm  very  fond  of  biscuits,"  returned  Miss 
Buss,  "  especially  your  biscuits,  Miss  Burroughs,"  meaning 
Mrs.  Burroughs  by  the  motion  of  her  head. 

"I  don't  have  as  good  luck  at  some  times  as  I  do  at 
others,"  explained  Mrs.  Burroughs. 

"You  certainly  were  fortunate  to-night"  offered  Mr. 
Humphreys,  who  had  taken  a  large  bite  from  his  own. 

"  Are  you  fond  of  biscuits,  sir  ?  "  asked  Miss  Buss,  look- 
•  ing  straight  at  the  clergyman,  as  if  she  were  curious  to 
know  the  exact  shade  of  his  eyes. 

"  I  am,  very,"  said  he,  and  another  piece  melted  in  his 
mouth,  in  testimony  of  the  truth  of  his  admission. 

"  Now,  do  tell  me  !  Well,  I  call  myself  quite  a  hand  at 
baking.  Really,  you  will  have  to  come  over  and  try  my 
skill  some  time." 

Lucy  colored  a  little  at  being  a  witness  to  so  open  an  in 
vitation,  and  looked  at  her  mother.  Mrs.  Burroughs,  how 
ever,  seemed  trying  not  to  notice  what  was  said,  begging 
Mr.  Humphreys  to  help  himself  to  butter,  and  asking  Miss 
Buss  if  her  cup  was  out. 

"  No,  it  isn't,  I  thank  you,"  answered  the  lady,  smiling 
very  hastily  on  her  hostess,  and  directing  her  attention 
immediately  to  the  clergyman  again. 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  Mr.  Humphreys,  laying  down  his 
knife  ;  "  I  hardly  think  I  know  where  your  house  stands. 
On  this  side  of  the  street  ?." 

"  O,  no,  indeed  !  Why,  you  don't  know  ?  Is  it  possible  ? 
I  thought  every  body  knew  that." 


i 


74  OUR  PARISH. 

"  But  I  am  only  a  stranger  here,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  yes ;  I  didn't  think  of  that  when  I  spoke.  So 
you  are  all  very  excusable,  sir.  "Well,  I'll  tell  you  where 
I  live ;  it's  with  my  sister,  sir  —  that  is,  with  my  brother's 
wife ;  and  with  my  brother,  too,  I  'spose,  for  that  matter, 
for  he  lives  with  his  own  wife.  Ha !  ha ! " 

The  clergyman  was  waiting  to  hear  about  the  locality  of 
the  mansion  alluded  to. 

"  O  la,  I  forgot  again  that  you  didn't  know  my  brother," 
said  she.  "  He  was  a  sayin',  only  this  very  day,  how«that 
he  wanted  to  know  you  very  much,  he'd  heerd  so  much 
about  you.  He  hasn't  been  to  meetin'  yet,  you  see ;  but 
he  means  ito  come.  They've  had  such  changes  here  in 
Brookboro',  and  so  many  new  ministers,  too,  he  didn't 
know  what  they'd  finally  make  their  minds  up  to.  He 
means  to  wait  till  they've  pitched  on  to  somebody  for  good, 
That's  his  cut  out ;  and  I  can't  exactly  find  it  in  my  heart 
to  blame  him,  either.  Well,  my  brother  thought  he  couldn't 
get  over  at  present,  so  he  said  he  guessed  I'd  better  come ; 
and  so  I  did.  He  wanted  to  hear  about  the  minister  all  he 
could,  you  know." 

Mr.  Humphreys  nodded  a  sort  of  half-vexatious  nod. 
Mrs.  Burroughs  glanced  at  him,  and  asked  him  to  take 
another  cup  of  tea ;  and  Lucy  looked  at  her  mother,  and 
at  Miss  Buss,  and  at  Mr.  Humphreys,  one  after  the  other. 

"  The  house  is  on  what's  called  the  '  back  road,'  "  ven 
tured  Lucy,  with  a  view  of  keeping  the  threads  of  the  con- 
versation  a  little  together 


MISS  BUSS.  75 

«0,  yes,"  broke  in  the  visitor  again.  "It's  rather  a 
lengthy  walk  there,  sir  ;  but  I  guess  you  couldn't  miss  the 
way." 

Mr.  Humphreys  bowed,  and  was  going  politely  to  accept 
her  invitation  to  call  there. 

"  A  red  house,  sir,  it  is,"  she  interrupted,  holding  her 
cup  in  her  hand,  and  lifting  up  her  face  until  it  showed 
fuller  and  more  crimson  than  ever.  "  Left-hand  side,  —  a 
little  back  from  the  road,  —  and  a  wood  pile  a  little  one  side 
o'  the  buildin'.  You  can't  miss  it  if  you  try.  I'm  sure 
my  IT -other  '11  be  glad  to  see  you,  and  so'll  his  wife,  and 
so  shall  I ;  and  we'll  try  and  make  you  comfortable,  though 
we  don't  pretend  to  be  quite  such  good  livers  as  Deacon 
Burroughs'  folks  be.  They  live  on  the  street,  you  know. 
Quite  a  difference  !  We're  off  the  post  road  entirely ;  never 
see  nobody,  except  when  we  come  to  meetin', — and  that 
hasn't  been  very  steady,  lately,  —  or  when  somebody  comes 
over  there.  But  I'm  goin'  more  now ;  we've  got  a  new 
minister,  and  I  tell  folks  it  makes  a  great,  a  wonderful  sight 
of  difference  in  my  feelings.  And  it  does,  you  may  depend 
on't.  If  you'll  come  over,  sir,  my  brother  Ned'll  give  you 
all  the  talk  you'll  want,  I'll  warrant  you.  He'll  talk  every 
thing,  and  about  every  thing.  Sometimes  I  tell  him,  just 
to  stop  him,  you  know,  he'll  tire  me  out,  and  all  the  rest  of 
his  friends,  too.  But  you  must  come  over,  sir,  and  see  him, 
and  see  us  all,  for  yourself.  He'll  give  you  good  talk,  and 
a  plenty  of  it." 

Mr.  Humphreys  tried  to  reply  to  her     First  he  began 


76  OUR  PARISH. 

at  one  end,  and  then  at  the  other,  and  then  he  essayed  the 
middle.  It  was  all  a  snarl  and  confusion  to  him.  How 
ever,  he  could  do  no  less  than  promise  to  improve  an  oppor 
tunity  for  making  a  visit  whenever  it  should  offer. 

"  Perhaps  I'll  walk  over  with  Miss  Lucy,  some  afternoon, 
and  take  tea  with  you,"  said  he. 

"  Yes,  or  with  her  father,  either.  He  and  my  brother 
are  good  friends,  I  believe." 

Another  exchange  of  glances  between  mother  and 
daughter,  which  Mr.  Humphreys  this  time  himself  saw, 
much  to  their  confusion. 

Miss  Buss  passed  her  cup  three  times  for  tea,  and 
begged  Mrs.  Burroughs  not  to  add  much  cream — she  liked 
it  pretty  strong.  So  it  would  naturally  appear,  if  her  vol 
uble  tongue  were  to  be  cited  in  proof. 

"  I  was  afraid  you  would  think  I  kept  you  waiting  for 
your  supper,"  said  Mrs.  Burroughs,  addressing  her  boarder. 
"  I  had  to  wait  a  little  for  Mr.  Burroughs." 

"  O,  not  at  all,  madam,"  he  replied.  "  I  was  quite  too 
much  engaged  to  think  of  the  next  meal,  I  assure  you." 

"  Writing  must  be  very  exhausting  "  offered  Miss  Buss, 
unwilling  to  be  kept  out  of  the  conversation.  "  Seems  to 
me  I've  heerd  folks  say  so." 

"  Possibly  at  times  it  is,"  assented  the  clergyman.  "  I 
was  not  engaged  in  writing  this  afternoon,  however." 

Miss  Buss  stared  at  him,  as  if  to  know  what  other  kind 
of  work  ministers  had  to  do.  She  said  she  thought  they 
wrote  all  the  time,  and  that  was  all  they  did. 


•m        '  * 

MISS   BUSS.  77 

"  Pretty  poor  sermons  some  of  them  would  be,  I  fear/* 
said  Mr.  Humphreys,  "  if  that  was  the  case ;  poorer  even 
than  many  of  them  are  now." 

"  But  yours,  last  Sunday  afternoon,  was  a  beautiful  one," 
she  offered. 

"  It  was  hardly  meant  for  that,  though." 

"  Brother  Ned  says  it  ain't  such  dreadful  hard  work,  this 
writin'  sermons  and  things  ;  though  I  rather  guess  he  don't 
know  but  little  about  it,  as  he  never  tried.  He  says  it's  a 
good  deal  easier  than  choppin'  wood,  or  holdin'  plough,  or 
milkin'.  /  don't  know  how  'tis,  I'm  sure.  If  I  did,  I 
should  be  pretty  apt  to  tell  him  oft,  if  he  was  any  ways 
wrong.  He  needs  to  have  his  notions  corrected  a  little 
sometimes  —  or  straightened,  as  folks  say;  for  he's  re 
markable  stiff  set,  you  may  depend  on't.  I  wish  you'd 
only  come  over." 

Just  then  the  deacon  opened  the  door. 

"  Deacon  Burroughs,  good  afternoon,  sir,"  saluted  Miss 
Buss  before  any  other  one  could  have  spoken.  "  Sorry 
not  to  have  had  your  company  before.  Miss  Burroughs 
wouldn't  wait  tea  for  you  ;  but  I  told  her  I'd  just  as  live 
wait  as  not ;  and  Mr.  Humphreys  "  —  looking  at  the  color 
of  his  eyes  again  —  "  said  he  had." 

"  Certainly,"  acquiesced  the  clergyman. 

"  O,  well,"  said  the  deacon,  "  I  told  my  wife  expressly 
not  to  wait ;  and  I'm  glad  she  didn't.  How  do  your  folks 
all  do,  Miss  Buss  ?  and  how's  your  brother  ?  " 

"  Well's  usual,  thank  you,  Deacon  Burroughs.    But  our 


78  OUR  PARISH. 

folks  are  full  o'  hard  work  yet ;  they  never'll  get  through 
with  that.  Brother  Ned's  a  kind  of  a  man,  you  know, 
that  makes  work.  He  don't  never  know,  seems  to  me, 
when  he's  got  through.  There  air  such  folks,  Deacon 
Burroughs." 

*'  I  know  pretty  well  that  your  brother  is  a  very  indus 
trious,  hard-working  man,"  returned  the  deacon.  "  Ho 
does  his  part  in  making  comb  for  the  hive." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  laughed  Miss  Buss ;  "  no  drone  about  him, 
I  tell  you.  He's  at  it  early  and  late ;  and  he  means  to 
make  the  little  ones  work,  too,  I  rather  guess,  when  they 
get  along  fur  enough.  But  brother  Ned's  had  rather  poor 
luck,  lately." 

«Ah!     How's  that?" 

"  O,  well,  nothing  very  dispiriting ;  but  then  you  know 
he  lost  a  cow,  by  lightnin',  last  summer." 

Lucy  broke  out  into  a  decided  laugh.  Mr.  Humphreys, 
too,  found  it  the  hardest  work  in  the  world  to  strangle  the 
broad  smile  that  was  making  its  way  over  his  features. 
And  Mrs.  Burroughs  looked  at  Lucy,  and  asked  her,  in  a 
forced  kind  of  a  way,  what  it  was  she  was  laughing  at. 

But  Miss  Buss  paid  it  all  no  attention,  and  went  on  :  — 

"  Then  he's  had  a  couple  o'  calves  sicken  lately ;  and  one 
o*  them's  died.  And  his  pertaters  didn't  seem  to  do  so 
well's  common,  this  fall.  But  he's  got  a  good  yield  o' 
apples,  and  as  fair,  smooth  ones  as  ever  you  see.  You'll 
want  to  bite  into  them,  Mr.  Humphreys,  when  you  come 
over,  I  know" 


MISS  BUSS.  79 

• 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  "  I'm  quite  fond  of  apples  —  good  ap 
ples." 

'    "  And  these  air  good,  I  can  promise  you.     If  they  ain't, 
why,  then,  never  take  my  word  again  on  any  subject." 

No  one  doubted  that  Mr.  Edward  Buss  raised  as  good 
fruit  as  any  other  farmer  in  the  whole  length  and  breadth 
of  the  town. 

"However,"  said  that  person's  quite  garrulous  and  good- 
natured  sister,  "  I  tell  him  he's  got  no  right  to  complain." 
Here  she  fastened  her  eyes  on  the  clergyman  again. 
"What  Heaven  sends  us  is  all  we  ought  to  have.  It's 
all  we  need.  If  we  ain't  satisfied  with  that,  we're  ungrate 
ful  ;  and  that's  all  there  is  to  be  said.  I  hope  /  ain't  one 
o'  the  ungrateful  kind." 

All  had  now  finished  their  meal  save  only  the  deacon,  — - 
for  whom  Lucy  had  relinquished  her  place,  taking  a  seat 
on  the  same  side  with  their  visitor,  —*•  who  was  moderately 
proceeding  with  his  supper. 

"  You  needn't  sit  at  the  table  for  me"  said  he,  looking 
round  on  them,  as  they  had  gradually  pushed  back. 

"Why,  now,  Deacon  Burroughs,"  said  Miss  Buss,  play 
ing  with  her  knife  a  little,  "  Pd  just  as  live  set  here  and 
wait  for  you  as  not.  Don't  hurry  yourself." 

However,  he  did  hurry  himself,  and  they  left  the  table, 
seating  themselves  in  different  parts  of  the  room. 

Mrs.  Burroughs  called  in  the  other  children,  who  had, 
according  to  old-fashioned  family  regulations,  been  kept 


80  OUR  PARISH. 

back  for  their  elders  to  get  through ;  and  then  Lucy  was 
left  to  wait  upon  them,  while  her  mother  sat  down  with  her 
knitting  to  listen  to  and  join  in  the  conversation. 

It  was  kept  up,  with  unabated  flow,  for  quite  half  an 
hour  longer.  If  at  any  moment  it  betrayed  symptoms  of 
lagging,  Miss  Buss  instantly  flew  to  the  rescue. 

Miss  Buss  was  a  kindhearted  person,  and  her  kind 
heart  had  been  mellowing  in  the  suns  and  frosts  of  full 
thirty  years.  You  could  not  well  rouse  her  resentment, 
for  there  was  nothing  of  it.  She  was  full  of  the  milk 
of  human  kindness.  There  were  blemishes  about  her 
manners,  though  it  would  have  been  more  difficult  to  dis 
cover  them  in  her  character.  Her  very  worst  apparent 
failing  was,  this  quite  common  but  much  too  curious 
habit  of  the  pursuit  of  knowledge,  sometimes,  it  must 
be  confessed,  under  the  greatest  of  difficulties.  In  other 
words,  she  was  a  little  too  inquisitive ;  and  her  questions 
stuck  to  one's  feelings  like  so  many  troublesome  burrs  to 
his  clothes. 

"Well,"  said  she,  finally,  "I  must  be  going."  There 
was  no  use  in  trying  to  detain  her  any  longer.  "  I've  got 
a  little  ride  to  take  yet,  you  see  ;  and  Miss  Button's  wait 
ing  over't  the  store,  I  s'pose.  If  I  don't  get  home  pretty 
soon,  the  folks'll  wonder  what's  got  me.  Good  night,  Miss 
Burroughs.  Good  night,  deacon.  Good  night,  Mr.  Hum 
phreys.  Don't  forget,  now,  to  come  over  pretty  soon,  sir. 
I  shall  tell  brother  Ned  all  about  it ;  and  he'll  expect  you 


MISS  BUSS.  81 

certain.  He'll  be  glad  enough  to  see  you,  and  to  talk  over 
matters  with  you.  And  he'll  give  you  good  talk,  too,  and 
a  plenty  of  it !  Good  night ! " 

And  out  the  door  she  tripped. 

"  And  if  she  can't  give  one  '  good  talk/  and  a  plenty  of 
it,"  said  Lucy  to  herself,  "  then  I'm  mistaken  j  that's  all ! * 
6 


CHAPTER   YII. 

THE  DEAD  BOY. 

MR.  HUMPHREYS  was  sitting  in  his  chamber,  one  even 
ing,  writing  busily.  All  day  long,  except  when  he  had 
been  out  to  take  his  usual  exercise,  he  had  been  occupied 
with  reading ;  there  was  so  much  to  be  read,  and  so  small 
a  beginning  had  as  yet  been  made.  Towards  night  he 
seemed  to  feel  the  spirit  of  composition  visiting  him,  as  if 
he  must  put  pen  to  paper  forthwith.  And  so  he  sat  down 
to  it. 

The  fire  was  very  pleasant,  and  threw  its  yellow  blaze 
into  his  face,  and  played  along  the  curtains,  and  danced 
merrily  with  the  shadows  of  the  bed  curtains  on  the  wall. 
The  scene  was  a  quiet  and  pleasant  one.  Brightly  glis 
tened  the  old  firedogs,  brilliant  and  brazen,  staring  into  the 
fire  as  if  they  would  outgaze  the  flames.  The  carpet 
spread  out  its  agreeable  figures  in  the  light,  inviting  repose, 
and  quieting  the  thoughts.  And  the  brands  snapped ;  and 
the  coals  gleamed,  red,  and  white,  and  glowing;  and  the 
blaze  kept  dancing  with  the  shadows  on  the  ceiling  and  on 

(82) 


THE   DEAD    BOY.  83 

the  wall ;  and  the  figures  of  the  carpet  grew  bright  and 
ruddy  by  turns,  and  then  faded  slowly  away  into  one  unre 
lieved  brown  ;  and  still  the  busy  pen  of  the  young  clergy 
man  kept  travelling  over  the  paper,  —  scratch,  scratch, 
scratch,  —  while  ever  and  anon  he  paused  and  bit  its  broad 
feather  end. 

Now  and  then  he  glanced  at  the  fire,  and  looked  likewise 
half  round  the  room.  A  stray  feeling  of  comfort,  and  de 
light,  and  gratitude  might  have  shot  swiftly  past  his  severer 
thoughts  and  stolen  into  his  soul.  Even  within  the  frame 
work  of  his  meditations,  there  might,  for  a  moment,  —  brief 
enough,  perhaps,  —  have  risen  a  sweet  picture  of  a  home 
all  his  own,  a  fire  blazing  like  this  fire  on  the  hearth,  the 
blaze  flickering  and  flaring  just  like  this  blaze,  the  curtains 
shutting  out  the  world  at  the  windows,  the  carpet  looking 
ruddy  and  cheerful,  and  one  other  heart,  dear  to  his  own, 
intwining  all  his  thoughts  with  its  quick  and  warm  sym 
pathies. 

But  if  so  he  dreamed  even  for  the  briefest  moment,  he 
instantly  shattered  the  vision  into  a  thousand  fragments ; 
for  he  took  the  feather  of  his  pen  from  his  mouth,  and  bent 
over  to  the  prosecution  of  his  labor  again. 

For  nearly  an  unbroken  hour  his  busy  work  went  on, 
Sentence  followed  sentence,  and  paragraph  succeeded  para 
graph,  till  the  sheets  presented  a  long  array  of  tasking 
thoughts,  and  impressive  appeals,  and  earnest  admonitions. 
He  ran  his  quick  eyes  backward  over  it  all,  from  time  to 
time,  considering,  and  weighing,  and  comparing,  till  he  felt 


84  OUR  PARISH. 

critically  satisfied.  He  paused  to  reflect,  to  gather  the  im 
petus  for  his  thought  again,  and  to  cast  his  expression  in 
the  proper  mould ;  and  then  on  he  went  once  more  with 
his  pen,  the  same  steady  scratch,  scratch,  scratch  resound 
ing  all  through  the  otherwise  silent  room. 

A  step  was  to  be  heard  upon  the  chamber  stairs.  He 
listened  a  moment.  It  came  straight  to  his  door.  And 
then  a  knock. 

Opening  the  door,  he  found  Lucy  standing  there,  light  in 
hand.  Her  face  was  pale,  and  her  looks  betrayed  evident 
emotion.  Mr.  Humphreys  looked  at  her  for  an  explanation 
of  her  excitement. 

"  Mrs.  Murphy  has  sent  up  for  you,  Mr.  Humphreys," 
said  she,  "  and  wishes  to  know  if  you  cannot  come  down 
and  see  her  this  evening.  She  has  been  in  great  distress 
for  the  loss  of  her  boy ;  and  she  wants  some  one  to  comfort 
her.  They  thought  she  might  go  crazy  with  her  trouble. 
It's  her  only  child,  you  see.  Poor  woman  !  I  pity  her ! " 

The  light  trembled  in  Lucy's  hand  as  she  narrated  the 
simple  but  touching  story. 

"Yes,  I'll  go  directly/'  said  the  clergyman.  "But 
•where  does  she  live  ?  I  believe  I've  never  seen  her, 
have  I?" 

"  I  guess  not ;  but  she  has  been  out  to  meeting  pretty 
constantly,  and  carried  her  boy  with  her  always  when  she 
went.  She's  a  poor  woman,  and  lives  in  the  little  brown 
house  but  a  short  ways  on  the  back  road.  You  turn  in 
just  beyond  the  academy  road,  and  then  it's  on  your  right 
hand.  Mrs.  Murphy  is  the  name." 


THE  DEAD  EOT.  85 

M I  think  I  know  the  house  now,"  replied  he.  "  I  have 
passed  it,  I  recollect  now,  in  my  walks  that  way.  I  will 
go  over  there  at  once." 

Lucy  withdrew,  and  the  clergyman  put  aside  his  papers. 
His  was  the  duty  to  visit  the  sick  and  comfort  the  afflict 
ed  ;  yet  no  more  his  than  the  duty  of  us  all.  "We  are  but 
brothers  and  sisters,  and  no  social  differences  can  break  the 
great  family  tie  asunder.  Yet  to  their  pastors  do  the  flock 
most  naturally  look  for  sympathy  when  earthly  sympathies 
can  do  little  to  heal  the  gaping  wounds,  for  his  seems  the 
balm  given  only  of  Heaven. 

After  a  quick  walk,  —  for  it  was  a  cold  evening  in  De* 
cember,  —  the  frozen  ground  meeting  his  feet  like  a  pave 
ment  of  stone,  he  arrived  at  the  little  brown  house,  and 
stopped  a  moment  to  take  breath  before  going  in.  The 
bereaved  woman  was  an  Englishwoman,  who  had,  by  some 
fate  or  fortune  undiscovered  as  yet  by  any  one,  been  tossed 
on  the  tempestuous  ocean  of  life,  and  finally  drifted  into 
the  safe  and  quiet  little  haven  of  Brookboro'.  Here  she 
.  had  supported  herself  with  her  own  hands,  devoting  all  her 
care  and  affection  to  the  welfare  of  this,  her  only  son.  He 
had  just  grown  old  enough  and  large  enough  to  be  ser 
viceable  to  her ;  and  at  this  age  had  died. 

He  knocked,  and  was  admitted  by  Mrs.  Upton,  the 
blacksmith's  wife.  As  he  stepped  through  the  small  entry 
and  opened  the  inner  door,  his  eyes  fell  upon  a  sight  that 
moved  him  deeply.  There  stood  the  poor  woman,  holding 
up  her  checked  apron  with  her  left  hand,  while  with  her 


86  OUR  PARISH* 

right  she  was  gently  smoothing  down  the  hair  over  the 
white  forehead  of  her  dead  boy. 

"  Poor,  dear  Jamie  ! "  said  she  aloud  ;  "  I  didn't  think  I 
should  ever  see  this  sight ;  did  you,  Jamie  ?  It  never  seemed 
as  if  'twould  come  to  this !  O,  poor,  poor  Jamie !  Just 
when  you  was  grow  in'  into  your  mother's  heart  so ;  and 
you  was  always  such  a  good  boy,  and  loved  me  so  much, 
and  never  made  me  speak  a  quick  word  to  you ! "  She 
stopped,  and  carried  her  apron  to  her  eyes,  sobbing  bit 
terly,  i 

And  then  she  fell  to  caressing  his  forehead  again,  pass 
ing  her  hand  over  it  continually. 

"  O,  if  Pd  only  been  taken  first ! "  said  she  ;  "  if  Pd  only 
gone  before  you  !  But  then  you'd  have  been  left  behind, 
darlin',  and  I  couldn't  have  died  happy  so.  No,  no,  dear 
boy,  I  must  follow  after ;  and  I  shall  follow  soon.  There's 
nothing  worth  livin'  for  now !  The  world's  nothin'  to  me 
any  longer!  Poor  boy!  —  if  I  could  only  look  into  your 
eyes  once  more,  jest  a  single  minute  —  those  blue  eyes,  so 
much  like  your  own  mother's  when  she  was  a  girl !  If  I 
could  only  hear  you  speak  again  !  Won't  you  speak  again, 
darling?  Won't  you  never  move  your  cold  lips  again? 
Let  me  kiss  them  once  more,  Jamie  — jest  once  more,  be 
fore  they  take  you  away  from  me  forever  !  O,  dear,  dear 
heart !  —  how  can  I  bear  to  see  you  put  in  the  cold  ground 
out  of  my  sight,  and  all  so  dark,  and  still,  and  dead !  no 
body  to  come  near  you  any  more !  nobody  to  ask  you  if 
you  are  hungry,  or  cold,  or  if  you  want  to  see  your  poor, 


t>EAD   BOY.  87 


dear  mother  !  0  !  O  !  I  can't  bear  it  —  I  can't  bear  it  !  "  — 
and  again  she  broke  out  in  irrepressible  groans,  that  con 
vulsed  her  entire  frame  with  fearful  motions,  while  she 
sank  down  upon  her  knees  by  the  side  of  the  bed  and 
wept  uncontrollably.  i-'r 

The  young  clergyman  stood  still  with  the  crowd  of  his 
emotions.  The  last  time  he  had  stood  by  a  death  bed  was 
when  he  was  at  that  of  his  own  mother  ;  now  he  was  wit 
nessing  the  grief  of  a  mother  for  her  dead  son. 

The  body  lay  extended  on  a  board  that  was  fixed  across 
the  bedstead  frame,  having  been  laid  out  by  the  kind  offices 
of  Mr.  Upton  and  his  wife,  the  latter  remaining  afterwards 
to  try  her  words  of  consolation  with  the  heart  of  the  crazed 
mother.  But  her  words,  though  well  meant  and  tender, 
were  vain  in  a  time  like  that.  The  tempest-torn  heart  of 
the  sufferer  was  not  to  be  soothed  in  a  moment,  convulsed 
with  such  a  terrible  grief.  The  waters  boiled  too  violently 
to  be  quieted  with  only  the  oil  of  pitying  expressions.  It 
needed  a  greater  than  the  mere  strength  of  human  sym 
pathy  to  hold  the  waves  finally  in  subjection  and  calm  the 
raging  elements  of  her  soul  at  will. 

A  sheet  had  been  thrown  over  the  corpse,  which  she  had 
turned  back  from  the  face  and  breast,  disclosing  the  outlines 
of  the  youthful  figure,  conjuring  up  in  the  imagination 
fancies  too  ghostly  to  be  expressed,  and  breeding  in  the 
heart  feelings  too  solemn,  and  tender,  and  mournful  to  find 
their  way  to  the  tongue.  The  sight  of  a  dead  body,  en 
shrouded  in  the  white  uniform  of  the  departed,  is  at  all 


88  OUR  PARISH. 

times  deeply  impressive ;  but  especially  so  at  night,  in  an 
illy-lighted  room,  where  only  death  and  silence  brood,  and 
occasional  sobs,  half  stifled,  fall  on  the  ear ;  with  the  corpse 
stretched  helplessly  before  you,  its  arms  extended  by  its 
sides,  its  lips  white  and  dumb,  its  eyes  sealed  in  death,  its 
pale  forehead  so  cold  and  ghastly  to  the  touch.  This  is 
all  calculated  to  sink  its  influence  deeply  into  the  heart ; 
for  the  heart  is  our  humanity,  and  death  appeals  to  all 
alike. 

But  the  sight  of  the  anguish,  —  the  deep  distress  that 
knows  no  alleviation,  —  the  convulsed  frame,  shattered  and 
tossed  with  the  violence  of  the  soul's  emotions,  —  the  ex 
hausting  grief,  too  deep  often  for  tears,  gnawing  on  the 
heart  like  a  ravenous  wolf  on  its  prey,  —  this  is  what 
thrills  finer  cords  than  the  mere  view  of  death  itself;  be 
cause  it  is  a  trouble  that  even  in  our  widest  sympathies  we 
cannot  comprehend,  and  in  our  quickest  feelings  we  cannot 
keep  pace  with ;  and  too  poignant  for  us  to  hope  to  allay 
with  empty  words  and  pitiful  phrases. 

While  the  bereaved  widow  still  knelt  by  the  bedside, 
continuing  to  bewail  her  affliction,  her  heart  smitten  as  with 
cruel  thorns  and  bleeding  at  all  its  pores,  the  young  clergy 
man  advanced  across  the  floor,  and,  without  saying  a  word, 
knelt  down  beside  her,  before  the  lifeless  body,  and  lifted 
his  voice  in  prayer. 

The  woman  did  not  look  up  as  she  first  heard  that  deep 
voice ;  she  might  have  done  so  at  another  time,  but  not 
now.  But  her  groans  and  wails  ceased,  and  she  bowed  her 


THE    DEAD   BOY.  89 

. 

head  still  lower,  while  her  repressed  sobs  alone  were  to  be 
heard  above  the  syllables  of  the  clergyman. 

O,  how  grateful  was  that  poor,  stricken  heart,  when  first 
those  prayerful  words  fell  on  her  ear  !  How  like  dew  or 
rain  on  parched  ground  dropped  those  fervent  and  earnest 
syllables  of  supplication  on  her  stricken  soul!  What  a 
gushing  out  was  there  of  all  her  hidden  and  tenderer  feel 
ings  !  and  what  a  glad  rising  on  the  wings  of  a  gleaming 
faith  towards  the  throne !  and  what  a  gradual  sense  of  peace, 
calm  and  holy,  stole  gently  over  her  soul,  quelling  the  tur 
bulent  tempest,  subduing  the  waves,  and  soothing  all  to 
happiness  and  resignation ! 

And  this  only  came  of  prayer.  She  entered  into  the 
spirit  of  that  prayer  as  never  she  had  entered  into  that  of 
any  prayer  before.  Her  heart  climbed  up  on  tho  ladder 
faith  had  suddenly  built;  and  there,  where  the  heaven 
opened,  she  felt  that  she  saw  the  angel  face  of  her  dear 
boy  smiling  upon  her  from  beyond  the  clouds  arid  the 
mists,  far  away  from  the  troubles  and  the  temptations,  in 
sunny  fields  where  clouds  never  trailed  their  dark  shadows- 
more,  and  where  the  sunshine  laughed  eternally. 

Blessed  are  they  who  see  by  such  faith  as  this,  whether 
it  wrestles  for  a  long  time  with  the  soul  before  it  gets  final 
possession,  or  steals  into  it  as  gently  and  imperceptibly  as 
the  light  that  enters  at  the  eastern  windows  in  the  rising 
morning.  Blessed,  thrice  blessed,  are  they  who  can  tear 
away  these  curtain  films  from  the  eyes  of  their  soul,  and 
look  beyond  the  fogs,  beyond  the  clouds,  beyond  the  deep 


90  OUK   PARISH.  .^ 

blue  itself,  even  to  the  heaven  that  reaches  far  backward  to 
eternity.  * 

Mr.  Humphreys  prayed  long  and  with  a  Heaven-given 
unction.  His  tone  was  earnest  and  warm.  His  words  were 
to  the  heart  of  the  poor  woman  like  words  of  fire.  He 
prayed  for  help  in  the  time  when  help  could  come  but  from 
a  single  source.  He  besought  the  compassion  of  Heaven 
on  hearts  afflicted  like  the  heart  of  this  poor  widow.  He 
begged  that  oil  might  be  poured  into  the  wounds  that  had 
been  made,  and  that  the  suffering  and  anguish  might  result 
in  a  higher  health  and  a  truer  faith.  All  his  human  sym 
pathies  were  melted  for  the  sufferer ;  and  that  did  but  heat 
his  heart  the  more  in  its  supplications  for  the  sympathy  of 
Heaven.  He  poured  out  that  humble  heart  freely,  and  the 
strength  and  courage  that  came  of  it  were  refreshing. 

As  he  rose  from  his  knees  he  asked  the  mother  if  she 
would  not  be  more  calm,  and  sit  down  and  talk  with  him. 
She  immediately  arose  and  seated  herself;  but  she  kept 
the  apron  to  her  eyes,  whose  heavy  folds  showed  that  it 
had  been  saturated  with  tears. 

Mr.  Humphreys  now  began  to  talk  in  a  calm  and 
thoughtful  strain  to  her,  speaking  of  death  as  but  what  was 
in  store  for  us  all,  some  falling  by  the  wayside  early  on  the 
journey,  and  some  living  to  make  farther  advances  towards 
the  goal  they  had  set  before  them ;  and  told  her  that  we 
ought  not  to  murmur  at  God's  goodness  in  removing  the 
tenderer  plants  to  a  more  congenial  soil  before  contact  with 
this  world's  impure  influences  had  blighted  them ;  neither 


THE   DEAD    BOY.  91 

we  a  right  to  call  in  question  his  motives  in  visiting  us 
with  afflictions,  for  he  had  said  that  he  truly  loved  whom  he 
chastened,  and  it  was  with  stripes  that  we  were  healed. 

Then  he  quoted  to  her  such  consolatory  passages  of 
Scripture  as  were  spoken  for  hearts  in  her  condition, 
applying  them  with  such  words  as  could  not  but  be  balm 
T;o  her  wounds,  and  strength  and  comfort  to  her  spirits. 
Her  boy  was  not  dead ;  he  was  only  sleeping.  Though  he 
could  never  come  back  to  her  again,  yet  she  should  go  to 
him.  By  faith  she  would  behold  this  affliction  in  the  light 
of  a  blessing.  It  would  enlarge  and  enrich  her  heart,  the 
-experience  of  this  great  sorrow.  It  would  cut  loose  her 
affections  from  the  fleeting  and  dying  things  of  earth,  where 
all  was  but  perishable,  and  fix  them  on  objects  to  which, 
perhaps,  just  such  a  grief  as  this  was  needed  to  draw  them, 
where  their  richness  could  never  fail,  nor  their  strength 
decay. 

He  sat  and  told  her  over  again  of  the  sorrows,  and  buf- 
fetings,  and  revilings,  and  griefs  through  which  her  Savior 
.freely  passed  only  that  such  as  she  might  be  made  whole  ; 
and  now,  when  that  Savior  asked  her  to  give  up  her  boy, 
her  only  son,  should  she  hesitate  when  the  sacrifice  was 
only  momentary,  and  promised  such  great  final  good  to 
both  ?  Ought  she  not  rather  to  surrender  him  up  without 
so  much  as  a  murmur  ?  and  ought  not  the  language  of  her 
heart  to  be, "  Lord,  here  is  that  which  thou  hast  given  me  "  ? 

She  grew  perceptibly  calmer,  yet  it  was  a  calmness  not 
yet  all  peace. 


92  OUR   PARISH. 

Her  eyes  were  still  fixed  on  the  upturned  face  of 
dead  boy.  Ever  and  anon  her  breast  heaved  with  a  deep 
convulsion,  and  a  wretched  sigh  escaped  her  lips.  For 
some  moments  this  continued ;  and  finally  she  buried  her 
face  in  her  apron  again,  and  gave  way  to  a  flood  of  tears. 

"  O  poor,  dear  boy  ! "  she  sobbed ;  "  I  never  thought  to 
see  you  layin'  on  the  bed  so  dead  as  this.  Won't  you  never 
speak  to  me  again,  Jamie?  Won't  you  call  me  'mother' 
once  more — jest  once  mere?  What  shall  I  do  here  all 
alone,  and  nobody  to  love  or  care  for  ?  What  shall  I  work 
for  any  longer  ?  O,  my  heart  will  break ;  it  will  break  — - 
break  —  break  ! "  She  sobbed  this  last  word  forth  pit- 
eously  indeed. 

Mr.  Humphreys  took  the  Bible,  that  lay  upon  the  table, 
and  opened  to  the  Gospel  according  to  St.  Matthew,  and 
there  he  read  to  her  what  Jesus  had  preached  to  others  from 
the  mount,  —  how  that  those  who  mourned  were  blessed  be 
cause  they  would  experience  the  heavenly  feeling  of  being 
comforted  hereafter, —  and  then  he  proceeded  to  apply 
what  he  had  read  as  the  Savior's  words,  making  it  mean 
nothing  except  for  those  with  hearts  bruised  just  like 
hers,  and  telling  her  that  he  stood  ready  and  listening  to 
hear  her  cries,  and  to  comfort  her  with  his  presence  and 
sympathy.  * 

It  was  quite  midnight  when  he  left  the  little  cottage. 
But  the  mother's  face  was  irradiated  with  the  gleam  of  a 
new  joy,  higher  and  purer  than  any  she  had  known  before, 
and  her  syllables  were  now  of  calm  resignation,  while  she 


THE   DEAD    BOY.  93 

stood  and  gazed  at  her  boy  with  a  feeling  of  submission, 
reaching  forward  in  her  hope  to  the  time  when  they  should 
again  be  united  at  the  feet  of  Jesus,  where  no  tribulation, 
no  anguish,  no  partings,  no  death  should  ever  disStver  their 
love  again. 

The  clergyman  felt  that  there  was  that  within  the  little 
brown  cottage  which  neither  wealth,  nor  friends,  nor  earthly 
honors  could  confer;  it  was  the  spirit  of  grace  and  of 
peace. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


THE  SEWING  SOCIETY  OF  OUK  PARISH. 

OF  course  this  met  every  week  —  sometimes  at  one 
house,  and  sometimes  at  another.  Each  family  opened  its 
doors  in  turn. 

To  give  the  reader  a  faint  idea  of  the  manner  in  which 
matters  were  conducted  at  these  meetings,  as  well  as  to 
introduce  him  or  her  to  sundry  other  people  who  went 
towards  filling  up  the  parish  numbers,  I  shall  take  the 
liberty  to  walk  into  the  parlors,  or  front  rooms,  of  Mr. 
Israel  Bard's  house,  and  look  about  for  myself. 

If  the  reader  goes  with  me,  he  will  see  Mrs.  Bard  very 
much  occupied  in  getting  supper.  She  seems  to  have  a 
burdensome  sense  of  there  being  company  about.  Such  a 
thought  not  unfrequently  troubles  some  persons  much  more 
than  it  does  others.  It  did  trouble  Mrs.  Bard  quite  a  good 
deal.  Perhaps  she  could  not  help  the  feeling,  and  that 
may  be  said  in  her  favor. 

It  is  now  January;  a  cold,  raw  afternoon;  the  earth 
white  with  crusted  snow,  on  which  the  sick  sun  falls  with- 

(94) 


THE    SEWING   SOCIETY   OF    OUR   PARISH.  95 


out  any  warmth ;  the  winds  puffing  their  careless  way  about 
in  the  street;  the  gardens,  and  yards,  and  fields  holding 
out  a  picture  of  desolation  and  gloom.  Very  few  people 
are  passing  on  the  village  street ;  and  several  horses,  with 
sleighs  and  horse  sleds  attached,  are  standing  and  drowsing, 
with  buffalo  skins  over  them,  beneath  the  sheds  about  the 
two  village  stores.  If,  now  and  then,  a  person  strays  out 
into  the  cold,  he  seems  to  go  along  as  if  it  pinched  him  at 
every  joint,  and  he  were  hastening  to  warmth  and  shelter 
again. 

The  two  front  rooms  of  Mrs.  Israel  Bard  present  a  really 
animated  appearance.  Most  of  those  present  are  ladies, 
whose  bright  eyes,  and  laughing  countenances,  and  winged 
words  keep  up  the  pleasantest  illusion  about  the  apartments 
|  in  the  world.  There  sits  Mrs.  Jennings,  the  wife  of  the 
doctor,  the  centre  of  a  circle  of  pleasant  faces  and  joyous 
hearts.  She  seems  as  active  as  her  husband  in  dispensing 
health  by  her  looks  and  conversation.  And  there  is  Mrs. 
Wilkinson,  the  wife  of  the  preceptor  of  the  academy,  whose 
rustling  silk  dress  does  not  fail  to  attract  the  attention  of  the 
younger  and  sometimes  envious  ones,  and  who  always  can 
make  as  many  attentive  listeners  among  them  as  she 
chooses.  And  there  is  Mrs.  "0^)ton,  the  good  consort  of 
the  honest-faced  and  open-hearted  blacksmith,  modest  be 
yond  what  is  agreeable  even  to  her  own  feelings,  but  far 
more  capable  than  many  of  less  modesty  and  more  words 
than  herself. 

And  Mrs.  Thorn,  the  widow,  is  there,  too,  as  she  is 


, 

96  OUR   PARISH. 

always  there  wherever  the  society  determines  to  hold  its 
weekly  meetings.  She  is  rather  closely  observant  than 
otherwise,  and,  upon  occasion,  can  give  as  large  a  yield 
of  general  village  information  as  any  one.  But  just  "at 
this  time  she  is  playing  only  the  part  of  a  steady  listener. 
Mrs.  Sanger,  the  village  lawyer's  wife,  is  there  likewise, 
quite  dignified  in  her  way,  and  venturing  but  little  in  the 
conversation.  She  does  her  sewing  more  by  herself  than 
among  the  others,  rather  edging  off  into  a  corner,  where 
she  can  be  sure  of  freedom  from  disturbance.  She  is 
appealed  to  for  her  judgment  in  certain  small  matters 
occasionally,  and  she  gives  it  as  if  she  cared  but  the  veriest 
trifle  whether  her  judgment  was  followed  or  not. 

Let  me  not  overlook  Miss  Buss.  There  she  sits,  not 
far  from  the  front  windows ;  and  now  she  wonders  if  they 
never  have  more  passing  on  the  street,  it  seems  so  much 
as  it  does  at  her  brother  Ned's ;  and  now  she  raises  her 
voice  to  tell  some  droll  little  anecdote,  to  as  many  as  choose 
to  listen  in  either  of  the  rooms,  in  her  own  inimitably  droll 
style.  Miss  Buss  has  quite  a  red  face,  the  proper  expres 
sion  and  intensity  of  which  color  is  duly  heightened  by  a  I 
broad  ribbon  of  the  same  hue  that  is  gathered  in  a  huge 
bow  beneath  her  chin. 

And  Mrs.  Plimton  the  wife  of  the  other  storekeeper, 
and  between  whom  and  Mrs.  Bard,  I  fear,  none  of  the 
most  cordial  feelings  exist,  —  she  sat  near  a  table,  some  of 
the  time,  quite  busy  with  her  needle,  and  at  others  studying 
a  pattern  she  was  about  working  for  the  profits  and  emolu- 


V* 

THE   SEWING   SOCIETY   OP   OUR  PARISH.  97 


ments  of  the  society.  There  are  many  younger  ladies 
there,  too,  all  of  them  full  of  talk  and  vivacity,  and  accom 
plishing  but  little  except  at  odd  spells  when  the  conversa 
tion  or  laughter  flags.  A  rollicking  set  they  are,  with  the 
brightest  eyes,  the  reddest  cheeks,  and  the  loudest  laughs 
of  any  in  the  house. 

As  yet  there  are  no  gentlemen  present.  That  is  not  the 
custom  in  Brookboro'.  They  are  not  suffered  the  privilege 
of  going  out  to  take  tea  with  the  other  sex,  for  no  other 
reason,  that  /  could  ever  think  of,  than  because  they  might 
bring  too  hearty  appetites  along  with  them ;  and  so  per 
haps  they  were  excluded  as  a  matter  of  domestic  economy 
simply.  They  cannot  expect  to  come  until  evening,  not 
before  the  candles  are  lighted,  and  the  curtains  are  down, 
and  the  legitimate  sports  of  the  occasion  begin. 

Tea  is  prepared ;  and  Mrs.  Bard  walks  into  the  rooms 
rather  statelily  for  her,  and  announces,  "Tea's  ready, 
ladies ; "  and  there  is  a  notable  jumping  up  and  clearing 
of  laps,  and  a  bustling  preparation  for  the  event  many  have 
been  expecting  so  long,  and  a  smoothing  down  of  the  front 
hair  over  the  temples,  and  a  fixing  up  more  securely  the 
back  hair  in  its  fastenings,  and  whispers,  and  winks,  and 
nudgings,  and,  among  the  girls,  giggling  and  laughter.  But 
by  slow  degrees  they  melt  away  from  the  parlors,  and  flow 
into  the  dining  room. 

It  is  a  pleasant  picture  around  the  table,  and  looks  invit 
ing  enough  for  any  one.  Mrs.  Bard  pours  the  tea ;  and  Mrs. 
Burroughs,  who  is  there  likewise,  with  Lucy,  —  she  offers 
7 

>  y 


98  OUR   PARISH. 

to  assist  about  matters.  The  large,  white  biscuit  are  such 
as  are  never  seen  except  in  the  country.  Mr.  Bard  keeps 
bees ;  and  so  several  large  and  clear  cards  of  the  yellow 
honeycomb  ornament  the  long  table,  and  entice  the  bright 
eyes  of  the  younger  folks.  And  the  butter  is  like  gold,  in 
liberal  cakes,  stamped  with  a  quite  liberal-sized  heart,  and 
looking  even  richer  than  the  honey. 

At  first  it  is  quite  still.  There  is  little  said  by  any  one 
except  when  Mrs.  Bard  asks  each  if  she  will  take  sugar 
and  cream,  and  the  answer  is  either,  "  No,  I  thank  you,"  or, 
"  If  you  please."  Then  some  one  speaks  of  the  weather,  a 
topic  that  never  will  be  treated  quite  to  death ;  and  some 
other  one  mentions  the  preaching  last  Sabbath  afternoon ; 
and  a  third  alludes  to  poor  Mrs.  Murphy's  affliction,  and 
how  hardly  it  goes  with  her  heart ;  a  fourth  breaks  out  in 
a  fourth  new  place ;  and  suddenly  all  begin  their  supper 
and  their  talk  together. 

It  is  interesting  enough  for  any  body.  So  many  tongues 
busily  going;  so  many  faces  radiant  with  such  different 
expressions ;  so  many  voices  rising,  and  falling,  and  mix 
ing,  and  running  together,  and  winding  round  and  round 
each  other,  and  finally  raising  a  pleasant  din  that  drowns 
every  thing,  and  almost  every  body,  in  its  overflowing  wave. 

"I  must  say  I  like  the  minister  —  very  much"  offers 
Miss  Buss  to  a  circle  she  has  succeeded,  without  a  great 
deal  of  pains,  in  drawing  around  her ;  "  he's  not  a  bit  too 
Bhowy.  Brother  Ned  thinks  he's  just  the  man  for  this 
parish,  and  I'm  of  brother  Ned's  opinion.  He's  so  talented, 
too.  Girls,  what  air  you  all  thinkin'  of  ?  " 


THE   SEWING   SOCIETY   OF   OTTR  PARISH.  99 

Her  last  sally  is  met  with  a  laugh  that  spreads  its  cir 
cles  beyond  that  of  her  original  hearers. 

"What  air  ye  laughin'  at?"  she  asks.  "Don't  you 
think  as  /  do  about  him  ?  " 

No  one  differs  from  her  in  her  estimate  of  his  talents, 
or  piety,  or  usefulness. 

"He's  a  man  that's  goin'  to  wear"  says  Miss  Buss; 
"  and  that's  a  good  deal,  you  may  believe  me." 

"I  don't  think  his  sermons  are  all  equal,"  offers  the 
widow  Thorn.  "  They're  better  at  one  time  than  they  are 
at  another ;  and  I've  heard  a  great  many  say  so." 

"  Why  shouldn't  they  be  ?  "  asks  Mrs.  Plimton.  «  There 
isn't  one  of  us  that  can  do  a  thing  in  the  same  way,  and 
equally  well,  two  or  three  times  in  succession.  /  like  him, 
and  very  much,  too ;  and,  as  Miss  Buss  says,"  —  here  Miss 
Buss  looked  very  approvingly  on  the  one  about  to  quote 
her,  —  "as  Miss  Buss  says,  I  think  he  will  wear  well. 
That  is  a  great  deal." 

"  Can't  do  the  same  thing  over  the  second  time  as  you 
do  the  first  ?  "  asks  the  widow  Thorn,  leaning  her  head  far 
down  over  the  table  to  get  a  view  of  Mrs.  Plimton ;  "  what's 
the  reason,  I'd  like  to  know  ?  Can't  I  hem  a  garment  to 
morrow  just  as  well  as  I'm  doing  it  to-day  ?  I  don't  believe 
in  such  notions  myself  exactly." 

"  If  you  think  there  is  no  difference  between  sewing  and 
sermonizing,  I  hardly  imagine  you  have  looked  at  the 
subject,"  returns  Mrs.  Plimton,  quite  pleasantly  of  course. 
"  But  /  have  an  idea  that  the  kinds  of  labor  are  two,  and 
each  quite  distinct  from  the  other." 


100  OUH  PARISH. 

«  Well,  /  don't  see  it  so,"  says  Mrs.  Thorn,  "  and  I  don't 
believe  I  can  be  made  to.  Work's  work ;  there's  no  deny 
ing  that,  is  there  ?  " 

"  O,  no,"  acquiesces  Mrs.  Plimton,  rather  thoughtfully, 
though  not  by  any  means  greatly  troubled  with  the  widow 
Thorn's  position. 

"  Well,  then,"  goes  on  the  widow,  "  if  a  person  can  do  a 
piece  of  work  well  to-day,  he  can  do  it  well  to-morrow ; 
and  he  ought  to  do  it  rather  better,  for  he's  got  the  benefit 
of  his  experience." 

"  But  mental  labor  is  distinct  from  every  other  kind  of 
labor.  It  is  not  the  body  that  is  tasked ;  it  is  a  strain  on 
an  organization  that  we  know  very  little  about." 

"  What's  the  reason  we  don't  ?  I  don't  quite  believe  all 
I  hear  about  these  matters  myself.  People  talk  about 
working  the  mind  just  as  if  there  was  the  same  hard,  down 
right  labor  in  it  that  there  is  in  working  the  body.  Now,  I 
think,  as  you  say,  Mrs.  Plimton,  that,  if  one  kind  of  labor 
is  the  hardest,  it's  that  of  the  body.  Ask  your  minister 
which  he'd  rather  do  —  go  out  into  the  woods,  with  his  axe 
over  his  shoulder,  one  of  these  cold  winter  days,  and  buckle 
down  to  it  all  day  long  from  morning  till  night>  and  have 
nothing  to  eat  except  the  little  cold  handful  he  carries  in 
his  pocket,  or  sit  in  his  nice,  warm  room,  with  a  good  car 
pet  to  his  feet  and  a  pleasant  prospect  from  his  window," 
—  she  glanced  at  Mrs.  Burroughs,  with  whom  the  minister 
boarded,  —  "doing  nothing  but  just  make  his  pen  go  over 
the  paper  ?  Which  is  the  hardest,  now,  I'd  like  to  know  ?  " 


THE   SEWING  SOCIETY  OF   OUR  PARISH.  101 

There  is  a  gentle  buzz  of  admiration  on  the  part  of  the 
others,  as  if  Mrs.  Thorn  had  made  a  point  Mrs.  *  Plimton 
cannot  overthrow.  However,  the  latter  is  nowise  discon 
certed.  She  goes  on :  — 

"  No  doubt  a  clergyman  would  be  glad  to  take  the  exer 
cise  you  speak  of,  and  diet  at  as  low  a^-pitch  as  you  have 
prescribed  for  a  hard  day  laborer " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  laughs  out  Mrs.  Doctor  Jennings,  "  I  think 
'twould  be  for  the  good  of  every  man,  that  used  his  brain, 
to  go  out  and  swing  an  axe  in  the  woods  a  day  now  and 
then.  Dr.  Jennings  says  the  same,  too.  Ha,  ha ! " 

"  But,"  continues  Mrs.  Plimton,  "  those  who  think  that 
the  labor  of  the  brain  is  lighter  than  bodily  labor  certainly 
cannot  have  given  the  subject  much  thought." 

Mrs.  Thorn  bridles.  Several,  especially  of  the  younger 
ladies,  look  at  her  to  see  how  she  is  going  to  take  such  a 
hint  as  that.  But  Mrs.  Thorn  suffers  Mrs.  Plimton  to  go 
on,  until  she  can  properly  marshal  her  own  forces  again, 
and  renew  the  assault  to  better  advantage. 

"  For  my  part,"  says  Mrs.  Plimton,  "  I  have  an  idea  that 
they  who  never  use  their  minds  enough  to  hurt  themselves 
hardly  know  what  an  effort  it  costs  those  who  are  obliged 
to.  It's  a  kind  of  labor  such  people  can't  understand,  talk 
about  it  as  they  will." 

"  That's  what  it  is,"  adds  Mrs.  Sanger,  the  lawyer's  wife, 
with  much  emphasis.  "People  shouldn't  be  so  hasty  in 
forming  their  opinions  where  they  are  not  familiar  with 
their  ground." 


102  OUR  PARISH. 

"  I  think  myself,"  still  adds  Mrs.  Burroughs,  who  might 
well  be  supposed  to  know  something  about  the  individual 
whom  they  used  to  illustrate  their  case,  "  that  Mr.  Hum 
phreys  is  a  very  hard-working  man.  Very  few  work 
harder." 

"No  man  can  fabor  like  those  who  work  only  their 
brain,"  says  the  lawyer's  wife,  thinking  only  of  her  hus 
band.  "  I've  had  abundant  opportunities  to  know  that  for 
myself." 

Miss  Buss  grows  redder  than  ever  in  the  face ;  and  she 
lifts  her  hand  and  says  "  she  don't  know  about  it."  Brother 
Ned  is  quoted  again,  as  usual ;  and  brother  Ned  says  that, 
if  ever  a  man  works,  it's  in  a  potato  field,  in  the  middle  of 
a  hot  summer  day.  "  If  that  ain't  work,"  says  Miss  Buss, 
"  I'd  like  to  know  what  is." 

The  younger  ladies  titter,  and  Miss  Buss  is  made  happy ; 
for  she  has  the  most  amiable  feeling  in  the  world  about 
people's  laughing,  and  always  gives  them  credit  for  enjoy 
ing  her  matter,  when  very  often  the  reason  of  the  mirth 
lies  only  in  her  manner. 

Mrs.  Thorn  comes  to  the  rescue.  She  has  rather  lost 
ground  for  the  last  few  minutes ;  but  she  tries  to  make  up 
for  it  by  putting  a  trifle  more  of  volume  into  her  voice,  and 
addressing  herself  to  the  table  rather  than  to  Mrs.  Plimton 
alone. 

Miss  Buss  will  be  heard,  whether  her  view  is  a  new  one 
or  not ;  and  she  takes  both  sides  of  the  question,  hoping 
rather  to  give  satisfaction  to  all  parties.  And  she  so 


THE    SEWING   SOCIETY   OP   OUE   PARISH.  103 

sprinkles  in  her  droll  humor,  and  dry  anecdote,  and  spar 
kling  quotation,  —  generally  from  "brother  Ned,"-— that 
she  throws  the  whole  of  them  finally  into  the  best  of  humor, 
making  even  Mrs.  Thorn  and  Mrs.  Plimton  look  steadily 
for  half  a  minute  at  each  other,  and  then  laugh  in  unison. 
_  It  is  a  capital  scene,  worthy  of  an  artist  even  above  simple 
"village  pretensions.  ( 

In  the  midst  of  a  pleasant  tumult,  therefore,  the  table 
breaks  up,  and  they  flock  into  the  other  rooms. 

For  a  time  there  is  nothing  at  all  done.  Work  is  sus 
pended.  The  girls  and  girlish  ones  go  sailing  about  in 
little  squads,  hunting  up  the  curiosities  in  that  part  of  the 
house,  and  fumbling  amongst  the  work  that  has  been 
accomplished  through  the  half  of  the  afternoon,  or  running 
out  the  door  to  get  a  handful  or  so  of  snow  with  which  to 
rouge  their  cheeks,  and  carrying  their  frolic  with  a  high 
hand  wherever  they  are. 

Some  assist  Mrs.  Bard  in  clearing  away  the  table,  that 
she  may  at  least  have  an  opportunity  of  sitting  down  with 
the  rest  of  them  by  and  by;  and  the  dishes  rattle  loud 
enough  almost  to  drown  the  talk  and  the  laughter  in  the 
other  rooms.  They  gather  about  the  hearth,  where  the 
brass  firedogs  look  so  shining  and  comfortable.  They  sit 
at  the  windows.  They  walk,  two  and  two,  through  the 
rooms.  They  listen  to  Miss  Buss,  and  to  Mrs.  Thorn,  and 
to  Mrs.  Dr.  Jennings,  and  in  turn  each  one  gets  listened  to 
herself. 

Twilight  closes  early,  shutting  out  the  light  from  the 


104  OUR  PARISH. 

windows,  and  making  the  wide  village  street,  with  its  far- 
apart,  straggling  houses,  look  almost  deserted.  The  sight 
of  the  cold  snow,  lying  as  still  as  the  shroud  over  tltt- 
speechless  dead,  sends  not  only  a  shudder  over  the  frame,, 
but  a  chill  to  the  very  heart.  It  makes  those  who  look  out 
thoughtfully  —  as  every  one  must  do  at  this  hour  —  feel 
grateful  for  the  comforts  of  shelter  and  home,  and 
Jblessings  of  companionship  and  neighborhood.  There  are 
no  thoughts,  in  summer  or  in  winter,  that  come  so  close  to 
the  better  feelings  of  the  heart  as  twilight  thoughts. 

And,  finally,  one  candle  comes  in,  perched  on  a  tall  stick 
that  stands  in  a  large,  deep  tray,  with  the  brightly-polished 
snuffers  close  at  hand..  And  then  another,  and  another. 
And  at  length  both  the  front  rooms  are  lighted. 

Hardly  have  all  seated  themselves  comfortably  again, 
and  hardly  has  the  light  work  of  the  evening  begun,  when 
a  step  is  heard  at  the  door.  It  is  Mr.  Bard  himself;  and 
Mr.  Humphreys  is  with  him.  All  make  a  notable  bustle 
to  receive  the  latter,  though  there  is  not  the  least  need  of 
it,  and  though  by  nature  he  is  one  of  the  quietest  men  in 
the  world.  He  moves  around  the  rooms  with  ease,  nothing 
stiff  or  constrained  in  his  manners,  addressing  every  one 
in  turn,  and  dropping  a  remark  at  each  collected  knot  cal 
culated  to  put  all  in  the  best  of  spirits. 

Miss  Buss  is  still  Miss  Buss.  Good  soul !  she  always 
will  be.  If  she  were  any  thing  else,  there  would  be  a  large 
social  vacancy  in  Brookboro'  which  the  united  ingenuity 
of  all  its  people  would  fail  to  supply.  She  must  give  the 


THE   SEWING   SOCIETY   OF    OUR   PARISH.  105 

minister  a  welcome  a  little  different  from  that  extended  by 
the  others ;  and  so  she  rises  from  her  chair,  and  shakes 
hands  with  him  very  cordially  indeed,  and  asks  after  his 
health  very  particularly,  and  turns  very  red  in  the  face, 
redder  even  than  the  great  bow  that  trembles  so  beneath 
her  chin. 

At  length  sleigh  bells  are  to  be  heard  in  the  street. 
They  are  approaching  the  house.  The  girls  listen,  and 
their  faces  color.  Who  can  it  be  ?  And  before  that  horse 
is  fairly  hitched  to  his  post,  another  circle  of  deep-toned 
bells  chimes  in  with  the  first,  and  the  hearts  of  the  younger 
ones  within  beat  quick  time  to  their  wintry  melody. 

It  is  not  long  before  there  are  plenty  of  coats  among  the 
dresses,  quite  blocking  up  the  rooms.  Every  one  has  a 
most  respectful  word  for  the  village  minister,  who  by  this 
time  has  settled  himself  in  slow  and  comfortable  conversa 
tion  with  Mr.  Bard  and  an  honest  farmer  from  just  over 
the  hill,  and  every  one  gets  a  most  kindly  and  affectionate 
greeting  in  return.  Mr.  Humphreys  skilfully  adapts  his 
conversation  to  the  tastes  and  inclinations  of  those  with 
whom  he  is  thrown  in  contact,  and  makes  many  friends  by 
so  natural  a  process.  He  is  no  farmer ;  yet  he  talks  of 
the  last  year's  crops  as  smoothly  as  if  his  own  hands  had 
held  the  hoe  and  his  own  arms  had  swung  the  scythe. 
Whatever  is  of  interest  to  his  parish  he  makes  his  own 
interest ;  and  so  he  grows  steadilyiinto  the  heart  of  his 
people. 

Now  the  work  progresses  but  slowly.     There  are  count- 


106  OUR  PARISH. 

less  interruptions.  They  stop  to  discuss  the  plan  of  using 
their  accumulating  funds  for  furnishing  new  cushions  for 
the  pulpit,  and  a  little  improvement  in  musical  instruments 
for  the  choir.  There  is  a  great  variety  of  opinions  on  the 
subject,  very  many  more  being  put  forth  than  would  gener 
ally  be  in  bodies  larger  than  that.  Some  think  their  moneys 
had  better  be  allowed  to  accumulate  for  two  or  three  win 
ters,  and  then  be  employed  on  what  in  the  mean  time  may 
be  determined  on.  Others  are  for  applying  all  possible 
profits  at  once,  it  is  so  much  more  encouraging  to  see  the 
result  of  their  labors  as  they  go  along.  The  matter,  how 
ever,  is  not  finally  settled  now.  It  is  left  open  through  the 
winter,  lest,  perhaps,  there  might  be  nothing  remaining  to 
talk  about. 

When  they  begin  to  bundle  up  to  go,  it  is  a  scene  of 
confusion  that  no  pen  can  describe,  and  describe  it  as  it  is. 
There  is  no  other  scene  in  the  world,  whether  village  worjd 
or  wide  world,  just  like  it.  Such  bustle ;  such  talk  and 
laughter;  such  a  mixing  up  of  cloaks,  and  capes,  and 
hoods,  and  shoes ;  such  parting  words ;  such  a  variety  of 
final  stories;  such  roguery  and  mischief;  such  a  buzz, 
buzz,  buzz  of  voices,  —  an  artist  couldn't  take  it  down,  and 
do  it  faithfully.  Only  they  who  have  been  through  the 
scene  themselves  can  shape  their  imaginations  so  as  exactly 
to  encompass  the  whole  without  the  loss  of  a  single  part. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

A  TALK  WITH  THE  FARMERS. 

WINTER  had  broken  its  icy  heart.  The  spring  rains 
had  thawed  out  the  frosts  from  their  fastnesses,  and 
washed  the  earth  pure  from  the  muddy  footprints  of 
winter. 

The  little  study  had  been  kept  pretty  closely  by  the 
young  clergyman  during  the  winter  just  gone,  his  thoughts 
now  recurring  to  those  long  and  silent  hours  of  meditation 
and  study  with  feelings  of  the  deepest  pleasure.  The 
labors  he  had  performed  at  his  table,  and  the  hours  of 
solitary  communion  he  had  enjoyed  with  his  Maker,  that 
he  could  now  recall  in  carrying  his  mind  back  over  the 
field  of  his  winter  experiences,  made  his  heart  glad  as  it 
never  had  felt  before.  He  rejoiced  in  the  opportunity  that 
was  offered  him  to  be  of  good  service  to  his  fellow-men ; 
his  gratitude  expanded  at  feeling  that  his  life  might  yet 
become  the  true  and  the  sincere  life  that  his  dying  mother 
had,  with  her  latest  words,  enjoined  him  to  pursue. 

It  was  a  delightful  morning  in  May,  about  the  middle 

(107) 


108  OUR  PARISH. 

of  the  month,  when  he  resolved,  as  he  stepped  off  the  broad 
doorstone  before  Deacon  Burroughs'  door,  that  he  would 
take  a  wider  range  in  his  walk  than  he  had  hitherto  done, 
and  hunt  up  as  many  of  the  natural  beauties  of  the  village 
as  he  could. 

First  he  strolled  up  the  street.  The  cherry  blossoms 
were  thick  over  his  head,  where  the  garden  trees  leaned 
over  the  walls  and  fences  to  the  street,  starring  their 
branches  with  innumerable  yellow  and  waxen  flowers, 
among  which  the  droning  bees  were  buzzing  without  ces 
sation.  The  lilacs  were  fragrant  with  their  spiK  5-shaped 
bunches  of  blossoms,  and  their  odors  sailed  and  drifted 
every  where,  like  the  rich  scents  of  magnolias  in  tropical 
climes.  The  apple  trees  were  ruddy  with  blows,  and 
pearly  white,  and  their  blossoms  contrasted  sweetly  with 
the  tender  green  of  the  shooting  leaves.  The  grass  had 
sprouted  all  along  the  walks  and  under  the  walls,  its  slim 
blades  as  delicate  as  the  first  faint  notes  of  an  evening 
song. 

The  air,  for  May,  was  so  bland  as  to  be  an  enemy  to 
every  thought  of  in-door  labor ;  while,  to  compare  with  it 
well,  the  sun  shone  as  bright  and  genial  as  ever  spring  sun 
shone  in  the  world.  There  were  many  new  signs  of  life 
in  Brookboro',  in  the  houses,  in  the  yards  and  gardens,  and 
all  along  the  street.  People  were  out,  moving  themselves 
in  the  air.  The  spring  vacation  at  the  academy  was  just 
commenced ;  and  this  disbanded  many  young  flocks,  who 
took  proper  advantage  of  the  opportunity*  to  enjoy  to  their 
fill  the  blandishments  of  the  beautiful  morning. 


A   TALK   WITH   THE   FARMERS.  109 

Mr.  Humphreys  passed  through  them  all,  speaking  to 
each  one,  his  own  heart  light  and  bounding,  his  spirits 
elastic  in  the  extreme,  and  his  feet  almost  clamorous  for 
the  privilege  of  a  good  run  along  the  wide  walks  and  over 
the  clean  green  grass.  He  felt  a  new  love  for  life,  —  a 
strange  and  wild  love  for  life,  —  for  only  its  own  sake.  The 
feeling  heated  his  blood,  tingling  pleasantly  in  his  veins, 
and  warmed  his  heart  till  its  joy  quite  overflowed. 

Under  the  cherry  blossoms,  and  beside  banks  of  peach 
blooms,  and  past  gardens  where  the  women,  in  their  white 
morning  caps,  were  staking  out  their  flower  grounds,  and 
men  were  busy  turning  the  dark,  rich  mould  with  their 
spades,  and  boys  were  making  white  smokes  roll  up  in  clouds 
from  the  burning  heaps  of  rubbish  over  the  gardens, — up 
through  the  wide  village  street,  seeming  wider  to  him  than 
ever,  and  more  airy,  and  fuller  of  sunshine,  the  great  elms 
drooping  their  arms  protectingly  over  the  road  and  the 
walks,  —  he  wended  his  way,  until  he  reached  the  par 
sonage. 

This  was  some  little  distance  beyond  the  meeting  house, 
and  on  the  other  side  of  the  street,  in  rather  the  north  part 
of  the  village.  A  two-story  house  it  was,  plain  white,  or 
rather  whity-brown,  with  a  pretty  little  yard  before,  and  a 
fine  reach  of  garden  behind,  the  latter  backed  up  with  an 
orchard  of  half  an  acre  or  thereabouts,  and  the  whole  of 
the  grounds  forming  as  attractive  a  spot  as  a  deserving 
country  clergyman  ever  wished  to  nestle  in. 

Mr.  Humphreys  walked  round  through  the  yard  and 


110  OUR  PARISH. 

garden,  looking  closely  at  every  object  that  attracted  his 
interest.  The  roof  was  very  sloping  in  the  rear,  and  so 
much  longer  than  the  section  of  it  in  front  as  to  suggest 
the  idea  of  a  man  with  a  low  forehead  and  a  long  stretch 
of  occiput.  The  clergyman  smiled  as  the  thought  came 
over  him. 

The  old  garden  was  untouched,  and  weeds  would  soon 
be  growing  there.  All  around  the  back  door  it  looked 
desolate  and  deserted.  It  is  apt  to  seem  so  there  as  soon 
as  any  where  about  a  house,  for  that  is  the  exact  locality 
where  domestic  interests  gather  and  consult  together  in 
their  privacy.  It  is,  in  fact,  their  court;  and  pots  and 
kettles,  and  wooden  benches  and  bottomless  chairs,  and 
tubs  and  barrels  form  their  train.  He  stood  and  looked  at 
the  plum  tree,  that  grew  so  near  the  back  chamber  win 
dows  ;  and  at  the  stone  wall,  that  fixed  the  limits  of  the 
back  yard,  and  told  where  the  garden  began ;  and  at  the 
paths  that  streaked  the  grass  patches ;  and  at  the  low  win 
dows,  into  which  a  child  could  look  through  their  small 
panes ;  and  his  heart  involuntarily  turned  to  the  days  when 
he  might  himself  be  the  occupant  of  some  such  pleasant 
parsonage,  perhaps  of  this  very  one,  and  his  feelings  might 
cluster  around  a  hearth  they  could  claim  as  all  their  own. 

Climbing  the  wall,  and  pursuing  his  way  among  the 
apple  trees,  from  whose  boughs  the  dainty  green  leaves 
were  just  springing,  he  leaned  himself  against  the  scaly 
trunk  of  one  of  the  most  venerable  of  them  all,  and  indulged 
in  a  brief  dream  of  the  spring. 


A   TALK   WITH   THE  FARMERS.  Ill 

It  was  sucji  a  luxury  to  be  out  in  that  morning  air.  It 
fed  his  spirits  with  such  equanimity  of  feeling.  There 
was  so  much  balm  in  the  fragrant  atmosphere.  He  drew 
in  such  draughts  of  pleasure  with  every  deep  breath.  The 
thought  of  escape  from  a  long  imprisonment  could  not  but 
occur  to  him,  as  it  probably  occurs  to  every  one  who  has 
sentiment  enough  of  any  kind  to  enjoy  spring. 

Was  he  selfish  ?  Did  he  think  more  highly  of  his  own 
individual  gratification  than  he  ought?  While  he  stood 
there  in  the  quiet  and  deserted  parsonage  garden,  and  let 
his  eyes  run  over  the  whole  spot,  —  vines  and  weeds, 
bushes  and  brambles,  house  and  trees, —  was  his  human 
heart  too  anxious  to  find  a  resting-place  from  its  labors  in 
a  retirement  like  that  ?  He  trusted  not.  He  thoroughly 
sifted  his  feelings,  and  hoped  they  were  free  from  the  base 
alloy  of  indolence  or  fear.  Yet  it  was  so  natural  for  him, 
in  imagination  at  least,  to  behold  the  fire  on  the  hearth 
stone,  and  to  draw  the  pretty  domestic  pictures  among  the 
coals,  and  to  encircle  the  whole  with  happy  faces.  And  as 
he  thus  suffered  his  thoughts  gently  to  lead  him,  he  won 
dered  if  this  would  finally  be  his  field  of  service,  and  this 
pleasant  old  cot  his  home. 

Breaking  away  at  length  from  his  garden  musings,  he 
took  his  course,  through  the  length  of  the  little  orchard, 
back  to  the  fields  and  meadows  that  stretched  out  broadly 
in  the  rear,  and  determined  to  climb  about  for  the  entire 
morning  among  the  hills  and  high  pastures. 

As  he  emerged  into  the  open  plains,  so  wide  and  ex- 


112  OUR  PARISH. 

tended  before  his  feet,  a  sense  of  freedom  entered  his  soul 
that  acted  magically  on  his  animal  spirits.  The  blue  sky 
overhead;  the  warm  sun,  shining  so  genially;  the  grass, 
sprouting  every  where  beneath  his  tread ;  the  blossoms^  on 
the  distant  trees,  looking  like  banks  of  solid  flowers,  red 
and  white ;  the  winding  brooks,  that  came  romping  down 
from  the  heart  of  the  hills,  and  went  glistening  like  threads 
of  silver  through  the  meadows ;  the  voices  of  the  few  birds 
that  had  come  back  to  their  old  haunts  to  renew  the  pleas 
ant  associations  of  the  last  summer,  gone  forever,  —  these 
sights  and  sounds  filled  him  with  indescribable  joy,  and  he 
involuntarily  repeated  aloud,  as  he  walked  slowly  onward, 
the  beautiful  verses  of  Thomson  :  — 

"  I  care  not,  Fortune,  what  you  me  deny ; 

You  cannot  rob  me  of  free  Nature's  grace ; 
You  cannot  shut  the  windows  of  the  sky, 
Through  which  Aurora  shows  her  brightening  face ; 
You  cannot  bar  my  constant  feet  to  trace 
The  woods  and  lawns,  by  living  streams,  at  eve  : 

Let  health  my  nerves  and  finer  fibres  brace, 
And  I  their  toys  to  the  great  children  leave. 
Of  fancy,  reason,  virtue,  nought  can  me  bereave." 

Far  across  the  meadows,  beyond  boundaries  of  wall,  and 
fence,  and  stump,  he  descried  a  man  ploughing.  The 
thought  occurred  to  him  that  he  would  go  over  to  the  spot, 
and  take  a  good  snuff  of  the  fresh  earth  that  was  being 
ploughed  up. 

As  he  stood  still  for  a  moment,  and  watched  the  slow- 


A   TALK  WITH  THE   FARMERS.  113 

moving  oxen  dragging  their  way  along,  and  marked  with 
his  eye  the  dark  trail  of  dirt  that  the  ploughshare  threw  up 
from  behind,  and  tried  to  count  the  billowy  rows  of  furrow 
that  had  been  industriously  made  by  the  patient  team,  he 
thought  there  were  few  sights  more  picturesque  in  a  spring 
landscape  than  that  of  a  farmer  at  his  early  ploughing. 

It  was  a  smart  walk  over  there ;  and  when  he  reached 
the  spot,  after  having  climbed  a  mossy  old  stone  wall,  he 
found  that  the  good  farmer  was  far  away  at  the  other 
end  of  the  field.  However,  he  waited  until  he  had  turned 
his  team  again,  and  then  jumped  from  the  wall  to  accost 
Mr.  Johnson. 

"  I  didn't  know  your  land  run  so  far  over  this  way,"  said 
Mr.  Humphreys. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  farmer,  stopping  his  team  in  the  furrow, 
and  taking  off  his  hat  to  wipe  his  forehead  with  a  large 
yellow  cotton  handkerchief,  —  "  yes,  my  land  runs  'most  all 
ways.  There's  no  telling  when  I  get  it  all  fenced  in ;  and 
when  I  do,  I  find  I've  been  fencing  some  of  it  out" 

"  What  a  beautiful  morning  we  are  having ! "  exclaimed 
the  clergyman.  "  I  declare,  I  wish  almost  I  was  in  the 
way  to  hold  the  plough  myself." 

The  farmer  shook  his  head  as  he  put  on  his  hat. 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Humphreys,"  said  he,  "  you  can't  know  much 
about  such  work  if  you  think  it's  light  and  easy.  There's 
no  harder  work  done,  I  imagine,  than  farmers'  work." 

"  Indeed,  I  do  not  doubt  it,  Mr.  Johnson.  And  you  must 
feel  sometimes,  especially  if  you  get  to  be  a  little  ambitious 
8 


114  OUR   PARISH. 

about  your  farm,  that  it  is  a  kind  of  work  that's  never  fin 
ished.     There's  always  something  more  to  be  done." 

"That's  it,  sir;  that's  it,  exactly,"  acquiesced  Mr. 
Johnson. 

"  But  all  labor  is  hard ;  we  all  have  our  parts  to  do ; 
and  I  think  he  makes  his  the  lightest,  and  gets  through  it 
soonest,  who  takes  hold  resolutely  and  with  a  deep  faith  in 
the  great  Power  who  regulates  the  results.  From  this 
view,  Mr.  Johnson,  it  is  of  little  moment,  after  all,  what 
occupation  we  follow,  so  it  is  but  honest  and  serviceable  to 
ourselves  and  others." 

"Just  so,  Mr.  Humphreys.  I  quite  agree  with  you 
there." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  plant  in  this  field  ?  "  asked  the 
clergyman.  "  Don't  stop  work  because  /  am  here.  Let 
me  drive  your  oxen  for  you  a  little  while,  and  you  follow 
the  furrow.  That  will  help  you  along  rather  more  than 
my  keeping  you  standing  still ;  and  so  much  to  be  done, 
too.  Come ;  gee,  there !  haw  —  haw,  there !  We  can 
talk  as  we  work,  Mr.  Johnson.  Come  along." 

And  off  went  the  team  again,  Mr.  Humphreys  plying 
the  whip  with  a  great  deal  of  needless  flourish,  and  Mr. 
Johnson  holding  on  by  the  plough  handles  with  all  his  old 
dexterity,  and  smiling  at  the  thought  of  such  a  novelty  as 
he  followed  after. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  plant  in  this  field  ?  "  asked  Mr. 
Humphreys  a  second  time. 

"  0,  you  asked  me  that  before.  Excuse  me,  sir.  Corn, 
sir,  corn." 


A  TALK  WITH  THE  FARMERS.         115 


"  Good  land  is  this  for  corn  ?  " 

"  None  better.  Good,  strong  land,  gets  all  the  sun  there 
is,  drains  early  in  the  spring,  and  keeps  in  good  order  almost 
of  itself.  I  sometimes  think  to  myself — ha!  ha!  —  that  — 
that  it  will  plant,  hoe,  and  harvest  itself  too  !  Ha,  ha ! " 

"  "What  do  you  raise  the  most  of —  corn,  or  potatoes  ?  " 

"  Wai,  about  equally  of  both.  I  find  as  good  a  market 
for  one  as  for  another." 

"  Keep  a  very  large  drove  of  cows,  do  you  ?  " 

"  Wai,  yes.  We  make  a  good  deal  o'  butter,  and  some 
considerable  amount  o'  cheese.  I  raise  a  good  number  of 
calves  and  sheep,  too." 

"  I  should  be  delighted,  some  day,  to  look  among  your 
flocks  and  herds  with  you,  Mr.  Johnson.  I  have  a  great 
passion  for  seeing  fine  cattle  ;  and  cows  seem  to  me  almost 
in  the  light  of  companions.  We  should  be  poorly  off  with 
out  those  good,  docile  creatures." 

"  Yes,  that  we  should.  Really,  Mr.  Humphreys,  I  should 
like  to  have  you  come  over,  one  of  these  warm,  pleasant 
days,  and  go  about  my  farm  with  me.  I  think  you  might 
find  some  things  that  would  interest  you." 

"  No  doubt  of  it ;  no  doubt  of  it,  Mr.  Johnson.  I'll 
accept  your  invitation  with  all  my  heart.  What  do  you 
think  of  root  crops  for  cattle  ?  " 

"  Wai,  I  can't  tell.  I  never  raised  enough  for  them  to 
fairly  make  the  experiment.  I've  had  a  notion  of  doing  so 
some  time  or  another,  and  I  guess  I'll  act  on  it." 

"  Some  persons,  you  know,  have  great  faith  in  turnips 


116  OUR  PARISH. 

for  cattle  and  for  sheep,  and  in  carrots,  too.  I  think,  if  / 
were  a  farmer,  I  should  try  the  experiment." 

"  Yes ;  but  after  all,"  added  Mr.  Johnson,  "  these  exper 
iments  don't  amount  to  much.  Sometimes  I  think  they're 
the  wust  things  in  the  world  for  farmers,  because  they  go 
to  make  'em  discontented ;  and  a  discontented,  uneasy 
farmer  is  one  of  the  poorest  sticks  in  the  world." 

This  was  farmer  Johnson's  "  notion  "  about  progress  and 
improvement  among  agriculturists.  It  was  a  good  many 
years  ago ;  but  the  notion  is  not  yet  quite  dug  out  by 
the  roots. 

Mr.  Humphreys,  by  this  time,  had  got  himself  into  a 
fine  glow.  His  face  was  flushed  with  color;  his  chest 
heaved  with  the  deep  and  quick  breaths  he  drew ;  his  hair 
about  his  temples  was  becoming  moist ;  and  he  felt  as  if 
he  were  physically  almost  a  new  creature.  Such  glorious 
spring  mornings !  such  rich,  fresh-smelling  earth !  such 
smoking  large  cattle !  O,  what  a  delight  was  this  brief 
change  to  him  who  had  studied  away  the  long  winter,  in 
the  cribbed  confines  of  his  little  chamber ! 

"  Mr.  Humphreys,"  said  the  farmer  at  length,  "  I  rather 
think  this'll  do  for  you.  I  won't  overwork  you.  I 
s'pose  you  know  the  old  saying  about  riding  a  free  horse. 
Ha!  ha!" 

"  O,  no,"  returned  Mr.  Humphreys ;  "  but  it  was  my 
own  choice ;  and  when  I  get  tired,  I'll  tell  you.  Haw  to ! 
haw  here ! " 

And  away  went  the  team  through  the  softened  ground 


A  TALK  WITH  THE  FARMERS.  117 

again,  Mr.  Humphreys  flourishing  the  coarse  lash  more 
than  ever. 

"  What  kind  of  fruit  do  you  raise,  Mr.  Johnson  ? " 
said  he. 

"Wai,  nothing  more  than  apples,  sir;  a  few  peaches, 
perhaps,  and  quinces ;  and  sometimes,  only  now  and  then, 
the  old  pear  tree  back  of  the  house  gives  down  a  basket  o* 
pears  when  we  shake  it ;  but  that  don't  amount  to  much. 
Apples  is  about  all." 

"  Any  very  choice  kinds  ?  " 

"  O,  no ;  nothing  more'n  russets,  and  now  and  then  a 
greemV  tree,  and  as  many  cider  apples  as  you  please.  But 
/  don't  make  much  cider  myself ;  only  enough  for  vinegar, 
perhaps,  and  to  moisten  the  mince  pies  with." 

"  Then  you  do  not  raise  much  grafted  fruit  ?  " 

"  Very  little,  sir,  indeed.  I  think,  if  there  was  only  a 
market  near  us  for  such  things,  I'd  go  into  the  business  a 
little  more ;  but  there  ain't  nothing  of  the  kind  here.  Our 
two  stores  are  all." 

"  Yet  I  have  an  idea  that  the  nicer  kinds  of  fruit  are  as 
good  in  one's  own  family  as  they  are  for  the  market.  Don't 
you  think,  Mr.  Johnson,  that  you  farmers  sometimes  make 
a  mistake  in  keeping  the  poorest  of  what  you  raise  for 
your  families,  and  sending  off  the  best  to  sell  ?  Isn't  there 
a  little  too  much  of  that  ?" 

"  Wai,  really,  I  can't  say  but  there  is,  sir.  But  I  never 
happened  to  think  of  it  in  just  that  way  before." 

"Yet  it  is  well  worth  your  while,  I  can  assure  you. 


118  OTTR  PARISH. 

What  would  you  think  of  any  other  man  who  should  deny 
himself  the  enjoyment  of  the  labors  of  his  hands  only  to 
exchange  the  best  of  what  he  has  for  money  ?  Money  is 
good  for  nothing  but  to  supply  our  wants.  It  is  worth 
nothing  unless  it  is  properly  used.  Now,  what  does  money 
buy,  Mr.  Johnson,  but  just  such  articles  as  you  raise  for 
sale  ?  And  if  you  had  only  the  cash  yourself,  and  not  these 
articles,  you  wouldn't  consent  to  purchase  any  but  the  best 
for  your  family,  would  you  ?  You  certainly  wouldn't  take 
up  with  what  you  say  most  of  the  farmers  do  now,  as  long 
as  better  things  were  right  within  your  reach." 

"  Wai,  no  ;  I  should  hardly  think  I  should,  sir.  I  hadn't 
looked  at  it  in  just  that  light  before,  though." 

"  There  are  not  many,  I  find,  that  do.  Farmers  imagine 
themselves  rich  only  as  they  get  money ;  now,  if  they  raise 
exactly  what  money  will  buy  for  them,  and  all  they  want 
of  it  too,  and  the  very  best  at  that,  what  can  be  the  reason 
of  this  hankering  after  bank  stock,  money  at  interest,  and 
all  that  ?  Enough  ought  to  be  saved  to  provide  against 
the  possible  coming  of  want ;  but  more  than  this  is  strained 
after,  and  too  often  less  than  this  is  reached  in  consequence. 
I  think  we  do  not  put  quite  faith  enough  in  the  Providence 
that  overrules.  We  do  not  stop  often  enough  to  think  that 
what  we  plan  may  not,  after  all,  be  what  He  has  planned 
for  our  good.  We  are  hardly  children,  Mr.  Johnson,  in 
our  faith  —  not  trustful  enough  of  our  Father." 

The  talk  went  on  thus  for  some  time.  Finally,  the 
ploughing  stopped  for  a  while,  and  the  farmer  concluded  to 


A   TALK   WITH   THE   FARMERS,  119 

.. 

rest  his  smoking  team.  Mr.  Humphreys,  not  long  after, 
took  his  departure  across  the  hills  and  pastures  again, 
wishing  Mr.  Johnson  the  pleasantest  of  "  good  mornings/' 
and  promising,  at  some  convenient  day,  to  come  over  and 
visit  him  at  his  house. 

And  Mr.  Johnson  thought,  when  he  had  climbed  the  wall 
again,  that  the  new  minister  was  really- a  man  "after  his 
own  heart." 


CHAPTER  X. 

AT   BROTHER  NED'S. 

"  COME,  Miss  Lucy,"  said  Mr.  Humphreys,  one  day  at 
dinner,  "  what  do  you  say  to  going  over  to  Mr.  Edward 
Buss's  house  this  afternoon  ?  It  is  a  visit  I  have  promised, 
and  I  want  to  fulfil  my  engagement.  Will  you  go  ?  " 

Lucy  looked  half  timidly  in  the  face  of  her  mother,  and 
said  she  was  quite  sure  she  should  like  to. 

"O,  yes,"  said  the  deacon;  "go,  by  all  means,  Lucy. 
The  walk  will  do  you  good.  Or  you  can  take  the  horse 
and  wagon,  Mr.  Humphreys." 

"  Not  at  all,  sir,  I  thank  you.  It's  the  walk  that  /  want ; 
and  if  Miss  Lucy's  not  afraid  of  growing  tired  before  we 
get  half  way  there,  I  should  be  glad  of  her  company." 

"  I'll  warrant  she  can  outwalk  you,  Mr.  Humphreys,  to 
day,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Burroughs  pleasantly.  "  You  don't 
know  what  she  can  do  yet.  She's  a  great  deal  smarter 
than  she  looks." 

Lucy  turned  very  red,  and  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  Why, 
mother ! " 

(120> 


AT  BROTHER  NED'S.  121 

The  deacon  thought  there  wasn't  much  use  in  telling  her 
of  it,  and  laughed  good  naturedly,  to  make  his  remark  go 
down  with  a  little  better  relish. 

At  all  events,  after  dinner  they  started.  It  was  a  rather 
warm  day  in  the  early  part  of  June.  They  walked  off 
together  up  the  street  until  they  came  to  the  road  that 
branched  off  in  the  direction  of  Mr.  Buss's  place,  and  there 
changed  their  course  by  the  difference  of  a  right  angle. 

It  was  a  pleasant  time  to  walk,  although,  perhaps,  a  trifle 
too  warm  if  one  walked  too  fast.  The  fields  on  both  sides  of 
the  road,  both  next  the  walls  and  beyond  the  strips  of  wood 
land  that  came  up  to  support  them,  looked  smiling  as  they 
lay  stretched  out  beneath  the  bright  sun,  their  bosoms 
teeming  with  the  swelling  seeds,  and  warming  with  the 
new  life  that  was  so  soon  to  burst  forth  into  existence. 

Across  the  belts  of  woods  the  striped  and  red  squirrels 
were  running,  chirping  and  chattering  as  they  caught  the 
sound  of  approaching  footsteps,  and  climbing  some  lofty 
tree  from  which  to  look  down  saucily  on  the  unknown 
encroachers.  Gay  flies  swarmed  and  danced  in  the  strips 
f  sunshine  that  fell  through  the  windows  of  the  leaves 
across  the  floor  of  the  road,  chasing  each  other  in  idle  and 
wanton  play.  The  wind,  now  and  then,  drew  gently 
through  the  lattice  work  of  the  foliage ;  and  Mr.  Hum 
phreys  took  off  his  hat  to  enjoy  the  refreshing  breeze. 

After  walking  slowly  onward  through  patches  of  shadow 
land  long  openings  of  bright  sunshine,  and  after  clambering 
up  one  acclivity  with  a  trifling  betrayal  of  fatigue,  and 


122  OUR   PARISH. 

going  moderately  down  another,  the  hot  sun  throwing  up 
its  dancing  and  wavering  lines  of  heat  from  the  earth,  they 
at  length  came  in  sight  of  the  little  red  house  where  Mr. 
Buss  and  his  family  lived,  when  Lucy  very  naturally  called 
out,  pointing  to  the  spot, — 

"There's 'the  place." 

And  in  a  few  minutes  now  they  reached  it. 

The  house  was  nothing  more  than  would  be  looked  for 
in  the  mansion  of  a  farmer  in  very  moderate  circumstances, 
quite  small,  perched  on  the  edge  of  a  steep  slope  of  land 
that  made  the  owner  quite  a  hollow  in  the  rear,  with  an 
extensive  pile  of  wood  on  one  side  of  the  building,  and  a 
more  extensive  surface  of  chips  stretching  in  almost  every 
direction  from  it  —  the  whole,  although  by  no  means  sug 
gestive  of  wealth,  sufficiently  so  of  the  commoner  comforts 
of  life,  as  well  as  of  hard  work  and  persevering  industry. 

They  knocked  at  the  front  door,  —  there  was  no  yard 
fenced  off  before  the  house,  —  and  Miss  Buss  opened  it. 

It  would  be  at  the  risk  of  provoking  honest  smiles  among 
my  kind  readers,  were  I  to  take  down  the  exact  words  Miss 
Buss  employed  in  her  very  earnest  and  hearty  welcome  of 
her  visitors ;  and  some  might  think  I,  half  unconsciously, 
was  designing  a  caricature,  when  nothing  but  the  real  pic 
ture  would  be  my  aim. 

Miss  Buss,  however,  got  them  both  into  the  sitting  room, 
with  a  great  deal  of  talk,  —  her  genial  and  effervescent 
talk,  —  and  then  said,  if  they'd  excuse  her,  she'd  go  and 
help  get  her  sister  in  readiness  to  come  in  and  see  them 


AT  BROTHER  NE&'S.  123 

And  she  left  her  visitors,  in  the  mean  time,  to  take  care  of 
themselves. 

After  a  long  interval,  in  came  the  maiden  sister  again, 
ushering  in  her  brother's  wife.  She  was  quite  a  short 
woman,  fleshy,  and  with  black  eyes.  Every  thing  about 
her  appearance  immediately  confessed  to  the  labor  of 
her  life. 

The  usual  salutations  over,  they  sat  down  for  a  few 
minutes  to  engage  in  conversation.  Mr.  Humphreys  spoke 
of  his  new  relation  to  the  parish,  of  his  deep  interest  in  the 
welfare  of  those  over  whom  he  was  set  in  spiritual  charge, 
of  the  general  goodness  and  sincerity  of  the  people,  of  the 
pleasantness  of  the  whole  town,  and,  finally,  of  such  indi 
vidual  matters  as  were  of  special  moment  to  the  family  he 
had  come  to  call  on-  His  own  good  judgment  led  him  on 
in  the  proper  way  to  those  topics  that  would  be  of  most 
concern  to  Mrs.  Buss  and  her  sister ;  and  before  the  latter 
were  well  aware  of  it,  they  found  that  they  had  become 
engrossed  in  quite  a  lively  conversation. 
t  "  You  have  several  children  ?  "  inquired  the  clergyman. 

Strangely  enough,  the  mother  looked  at  her  sister  before 
answering  the  inquiry,  as  if  the  maiden  might  best  answer 
for  her. 

"  Only  four,  sir,  that's  all,"  said  Miss  Buss  ;  "  but  some 
times  I  think  thaCs  four  too  many,  from  the  noise  they 
make.     They're  enough  to  craze  me  when  I  don't  feel  very 
well,  as  I  sometimes  am  apt  to  feel." 
f  "  Children  may  be  considered  the  chief  blessings  of  their 


124  OUR  PARISH. 

parents,"  remarked  Mr.  Humphreys;  "at  least,  good 
children." 

"  Yes ;  but  I  tell  sister,"  said  Miss  Buss,  "  that  one  can't 
always  depend  on  their  being  good.  Sometimes  the  very 
best  parents  have  the  very  worst  children.  These  things 
seem  to  go  so  strange,  now  and  then." 

"  Undoubtedly  some  natures  are  more  perverse  than 
others,  and  need  more  close  watching  and  severer  correc 
tion.  Yet  I  think  it  will  generally  be  found  that,  where 
they  come  up  with  dispositions  as  radically  wrong  as  some 
of  them  seem  to  be  occasionally,  there  is  a  want  of  proper 
watchfulness  and  care  among  the  parents.  It  can  hardly 
be  otherwise.  There  is  rarely  an  effect  without  a  cause." 

"  I  believe  I've  got  pretty  good  children,  on  the  whole," 
offered  Mrs.  Buss. 

"  O,  yes,  every  mother  thinks  favorably  of  her  own,  of 
course,  Mr.  Humphreys,"  returned  the  maiden  sister,  laugh 
ing.  "  But  Til  go  out  and  bring  in  two  or  three  of  'em 
now.  I  want  'em  to  see  the  minister  themselves." 

And  Miss  Buss  started  to  go.  Presently  she  came  back 
into  the  room,  dragging  along  one,  and  being  dragged  along 
herself  in  turn  by  another. 

"  Come,  Peggy,"  said  she  to  the  one  who  hung  back  so 
heavily  and  hid  her  face  in  her  aunt's  gown ;  "  you  must 
be  good  for  a  few  minutes.  Here's  the  minister.  Stan* 
UP>  Peggy." 

It  took  quite  a  serious  tug  to  bring  the  little  bit  of 
obstinate  modesty  into  the  room  just  as  she  ought  to  come. 


AT   BROTHER  NED'S.  125 

But  it  was  accomplished  at  last.  The  two  children  were 
presented  to  the  clergyman,  and  forthwith  fell  to  exhibiting 
their  newest  domestic  tricks  to  the  somewhat  astonished 
company  and  their  delighted  but  half-complaining  mother. 

As  a  last  resort,  Miss  Buss,  their  more  energetic  aunt, 
felt  compelled  to  put  them  out  of  the  room ;  which  she  pro 
ceeded  to  do  while  the  one  was  laughing  quite  saucily  in 
her  face,  and  the  other  was  trying  to  cry  by  making  bub 
bles  at  its  mouth  and  drawing  down  its  •  face  to  a  length 
that  was  any  thing  but  natural. 

They  then  continued  to  pass  perhaps  half  an  hour  in 
quiet  conversation,  save  when,  now  and  then,  a  thumping 
kick  or  bang  was  directed  by  one  or  the  other  of  the 
turned-out  juveniles  against  the  door,  who  seemed  in  this 
way  to  be  having  their  revenge  for  the  liberties  of  which 
they  had  been  so  summarily  deprived. 

"What  air  them  children  at,  do  you  s'pose?"  anx 
iously  inquired  their  mother,  directing  her  look  and  her 
question  at  the  maiden  sister. 

"  I'll  go  see,  at  any  rate,"  was  the  reply,  as  the  latter 
starte'd  rather  briskly  from  her  seat,  and  darted  out  through 
the  door. 

Lucy  thought  she  certainly  heard  a  cry  as  of  distress,  and 
bit  her  lip  ;  and,  in  a  moment  after,  she  was  quite  sure  she 
caught  the  sound  of  a  loud  laugh  of  a  child ;  and  she 
laughed  herself,  too,  as  its  merry  echoes  rang  in  her  ears. 

"  I  guess  Nancy'll  find  trouble  enough  with  'em,"  ex 
claimed  their  mother ;  "  for  it's  more'n  /  can  do  to  make 
'em  mind." 


126  OUK   PARISH. 

Nancy,  the  sister,  came  back  again  soon,  looking  quite 
tired,  very  red  in  the  face,  and  much  out  of  breath. 

"I've  conquered  'em,"  said  she,  between  breaths;  "and 
I've  sent  off  Charles  Henry  to  find  brother  Ned.  You'll 
want  to  see  him,  Mr.  Humphreys." 

"  Certainly,  I  should  be  very  glad  to.  Yet  I  hardly 
expect  him  to  leave  his  work,  at  so  busy  a  season  of  the 
year  as  this,  for  half  a  day.  I  try  to  understand  all  these 
things  just  as  they  ought  to  be  understood." 

The  wife  felt  that  he  rose  in  her  esteem  immediately. 

"He's  not  fur  from  home,  very,"  answered  she.  "I 
guess  he'll  soon  come ;  and  I'll  be  gettin'  tea,  if  you'll  ex 
cuse  me.  Nancy,  you  can  set  with  Mr.  Humphreys  and 
Lucy." 

Lucy  looked  inquiringly  over  at  her  escort. 

"  I  hardly  think,  Mrs.  Buss,"  answered  he,  "  that  we  can 
stay  to  tea  to-day.  Suppose  we  take  another  day." 

The  wife  stopped  short,  and  turned  round  in  amazement. 

"  Not  stay  to  tea  ! " 

"  What !  goin'  home  without  supper ! "  exclaimed  Miss 
Buss.  "  I  won't  hear  a  word  of  it  —  there  ! " 

Mr.  Humphreys  averred  they  did  not  seriously  contem 
plate  staying  so  long  when  first  coming  away.  It  would 
bring  them  late  home. 

"  But  we'll  have  an  early  tea ! "  returned  the  wife. 
"  Stay,  by  all  means." 

"You  sha'n't  be  delayed  any  longer'n  you  want  to," 
added  the  maiden  sister.  "We'll  hurry  about  it.  And 


AT   BROTHER  NED'S.  127 

Ned'U  be  here  in  a  few  minutes,  too.  He'd  be  dreadfully 
disappointed  not  to  see  you,  Mr.  Humphreys,  and  have  a 
little  talk  with  you.  He's  so  fond  o'  talk." 

It  was  finally  settled  that  the  table  should  be  set  at 
once,  and  supper  got.  And  Mrs.  Buss  went  out  into  the 
kitchen  part  of  the  house,  while  Miss  Nancy  began  to 
draw  out  the  table  into  the  middle  of  the  room  where  they 
sat,  and  to  take  the  crockery  and  knives  and  forks  from  the 
little  closet  sunk  in  the  corner  of  the  walls,  and  lay  them 
on  the  board. 

Mr.  Humphreys  moved  his  seat  to  the  window,  which 
was  open,  and  out  of  which  he  looked  with  mixed  delight 
and  disquiet.  The  sight  of  the  grand  old  woods,  back  from 
the  road  on  the  opposite  side,  where  the  summer  breezes 
seemed  to  hide  themselves  in  the  middle  of  the  hot  days, 

coming  down  from  their  leafy  chambers  by  the  winding 

• 
'    staircases,  at  the  twilight,  to  play  over  the  heated  surface 

of  the  ground,  —  this  sight  attracted  and  delighted  him. 
But  the  ragged-looking  road ;  the  tumble-down  stone  wall, 
patched  up  here  and  there,  at  a  gap,  with  a  broken  rail ; 
the  chips,  strewn  here,  and  there,  and  every  where ;  the 
general  look  of  negligence  and  unthriftiness  before  the 
door,  —  these  things  marred  sadly  the  feelings  with  which 
the  beauty  of  natural  objects  inspired  him ;  and  he  could 
not  help  thinking  how  true  it  was  that  a  man's  nature 
showed  itself  in  the  commonest  objects  over  which  he  had 
control,  and  that  human  tastes  were  quite  as  diverse  as 
human  hearts. 


128  OUR   PARISH. 

And  while  he  sat  by  the  window  musing,  the  stillness  of 
the  remote  country  impressing  itself  deeply  upon  every 
thought  and  fancy,  Mr.  Edward  Buss  himself  walked  in. 

"Mr.  Humphreys,"  said  he,  without  waiting  for  the 
ceremony  his  anxious  sister  stood  at  his  elbow  to  perform, 
"  I'm  glad  to  see  you  at  my  house."  And  he  took  the 
clergyman's  hand,  which  he  shook  right  heartily. 

"I  hope  my  visit  has  not  taken  you  from  necessary 
work,"  remarked  Mr.  Humphreys. 

"  No,  sir ;  no,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Buss,  who  was  just  leaving 
off  a  short  speech  to  Lucy.  "  I'd  ha'  stopped  work,  the 
busiest  day  I've  seen  yet,  to  ha'  seen  you.  It's  a  real 
pleasure  to  me,  sir  —  a  right  down  pleasure,  sir.  Wai,  sir, 
how  do  you  think  you  like  Brookboro'  ?  We  don't  pretend 
exactly  to  call  this  part  of  the  town  Brookboro',  you  know, 
I  s'pose.  Do  you  think  you'd  like  a  life  amongst  our  sort 
o'  folks  ?  Farmers,  you  know,  pretty  much  all  of  us  ;  but 
we  claim  to  know  something  about  what  we  want  in  the  way 
of  preachin'.  Nancy,  won't  you  open  that  t'other  door  ? 
I'm  warm,  sir.  It  ain't  often  that  I  come  in  and  set  down 
with  company;  we  have  so  little  oft,  in  the  first  place,  and 
I  have  so  little  time  to  waste,  in  the  second.  And  to  set 
down,  in  a  hot  day  in  summer,  with  a  coat  on,  —  that's 
what  I  ain't  use  to  at  all."  And  upon  this  he  thrust  out 
both  his  arms  at  their  full  length,  at  right  angles  from  his 
breast,  as  if  he  would,  by  some  process  he  did  not  exactly 
understand  himself,  get  more  thoroughly  into  his  coat,  and 
adjust  it  more  properly  to  his  person,  especially  over  the 
shoulders  and  under  the  arms. 


AT  BROTHER  NED'S.  129 

*  Well,"  said  Mr.  Humphreys,  designing  to  reply  to  his 
question,  "  I  am  free  to  confess  I  like  Brookboro'  highly, 
As  for  my  settling  with  the  good  people  here,  probably  they 
will  have  quite  as  much  to  say  about  it  as  /  should." 

"  Exackly,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Buss.  "  But  I  rather  guess 
most  on  'em  wouldn't  have  much  to  say  aginst  your  stayin'. 
If  our  folks  like  a  man,  they're  apt  to  like  pretty  hard." 

Miss  Nancy  fully  acquiesced  in  that  last  remark,  and 
likewise  coincided  with  her  brother  in  the  opinion  that  they 
already  liked  Mr.  Humphreys  exceedingly. 

Thet  clergyman  changed  the  topic  as  dexterously  as  he 
could. 

"  Some  very  pleasant  farms  about  the  town,"  said  he, 
"as  well  as  pleasant  people" 

The  maiden  sister  smiled  and  looked  at  her  brother  Ned 
at  the  same  moment, 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  Yes.  What  do  you  think  of  the  looks  o' 
mine,  sir  ?  Pleasant  location  for  a  house,  I  think ;  though 
some  folks  pretend  to  say  it  looks  as  if  a  good  strong  man 
could  push  it  over  the  hill  down  into  the  Holler  below  us. 
Yes,  I  think  some  of  our  Brookboro'  farms  air  pretty 
pleasant  situations.  But  a  farmer  can't  stand  about  the 
looks  o'  things  much.  He  hasn't  got  time.  He's  got  other 
things  to  attend  to.  Jest  count  up  his  chores,  and  his  work 
in  plantin'  time,  and  mo  win'  time,  and  hoein'  time,  and  har 
vesting  and  huskin',  and  butcherin',  and  buildin'  up  fence, 
and  harrerin',  and  ploughin',  and  goin'  to  mill,  and  a  thou 
sand  things  no  other  man  but  himself  can  think  on." 
9 


130  OUR  PARISH. 

Mr.  Humphreys  admitted  that  his  life  was  a  busy  one 
indeed. 

"  And  then,  agin,"  added  Mr.  Buss,  brushing  up  his  moist 
hair  stiffly  from  his  forehead,  —  his  sister  was  always  en 
joining  it  on  him  to  keep  a  good  high  "  forward,"  like  other 
people,  —  "  and  then,  agin,  he  never  must  think  o'  visitin' 
round  much ;  he  hain't  got  the  time.  Now,  you  ministers 
are  situated  different.  That's  your  business.  You  are 
hired  just  a-purpose  to  do  that,  and  nothing  else ;  and  I 
hope,  Mr.  Humphreys,  you'll  make  a  good  share  of  your 
calls  this  way.  If  /  ain't  at  home  myself,  I  know  my 
folks  '11  be ;  and  they'll  do  better  for  you  than  I  could. 
I'm  but  a  poor  hand  at  these  things,  you  see." 

The  clergyman  could  hardly  repress,  a  smile  at  the 
marked  candor  of  Mr.  Buss,  and  was  going  to  say  some 
thing  in  reply,  when  in  came  Mrs.  Buss,  escorted,  in  the 
front,  _ flank,  and  rear,  by  her  entire  family  of  children. 

"  Supper's  all  ready  now,"  said  she. 

"  You've  seen  my  children,  I  s'pose,"  said  the  father  to 
the  clergyman. 

"  Only  two  of  them,  sir.  Here  are  two  more.  I  hope 
you  have  as  good  children  as  you  want." 

"  Ha !  ha !  I'm  afraid  they're  sometimes  as  bad  chil 
dren  as  they  can  be,"  said  Mr.  Buss. 

"  I  guess  Mr.  Humphreys  has  seen  all  he  cares  to  of 
'em,"  remarked  Miss  Nancy,  looking  especially  at  her  sister. 
But  the  latter  took  no  notice  of  the  hint  whatever. 

They  sat  up  at  the  table  —  Mr.  Buss  and  his  wife,  Mr 


AT  BROTHER  NED  S.  131 

Humphreys  and  Lucy,  Miss  Buss  and  two  of  the  children. 
The  other  two —  the  second  and  third  in  the  order  of  their 
ages  —  were  kept  waiting  till  there  should  be  more  room, 
and  meanwhile  were  allowed  to  divert  themselves,  and 
drown  the  conversation  at  the  table,  by  rolling  and  laugh 
ing  on  the  floor. 

Mr.  Buss  went  on  with  the  rehearsal  of  farmers'  labors, 
and  his  own  especially,  contrasting  them  with  the  lightness 
of  other  men's  occupations,  and  of  clergymen  especially. 
Mr.  Humphreys  considerately  deemed  that  no  good  could 
come  of  a  discussion  on  such  topics,  and  so  did  not  venture 
to  dispute  his  premises. 

Miss  Buss  thought  that  she  should  like  to  hear  Mr. 
Humphreys  and  her  brother  talk  on  some  point  of  theo 
logical  doctrine.  "  Brother  Ned  was  such  a  complete 
argufier,  and  he'd  never  give  up  to  nobody." 

Mr.  Humphreys,  however,  insisted  on  men's  first  trying 
to  live  godly  lives,  and  to  set  pure  and  bright  examples, 
before  throwing  away  all  their  natural  charities  for  one 
another  in  vain  disputes  and  differences.  If  the  heart  was 
right,  and  the  life  testified  to  it  at  every  point,  the  reality 
of  religion  had  already  been  experienced.  And  he  went 
on,  judiciously  and  pointedly,  to  rebuke  those  who  loaded 
themselves  down  with  the  husks  of  religious  theories,  while 
tfoeir  hearts  really  hungered  for  the  nourishment  that  was 
to  be  found  only  in  the  kernels  they  threw  away. 
*  Possibly  it  might  have  been  a  good  thing  for  Mr.  Buss, 
this  invitation  of  his  sister  for  him  to  engage  in  a  religious 


132  OtJB  PARISH. 

conflict  respecting  creeds  with  the  clergyman ;  at  least,  it 
appeared  to  be  for  the  time.  The  manner  of  Mr.  Hum 
phreys  was  so  gentle,  there  was  so  little  room  for  one  to 
take  offence,  his  very  earnestness  and  sincerity  were  so 
much  in  keeping  with  his  gentleness  and  humility,  that  the 
sturdy  spirit  of  opposition  stood  suddenly  disarmed  of  its 
weapons,  and  fell  to  its  knees  in  all  the  innocence  of  a 
childish  faith. 

Supper  had  been  over  some  time  when  they  moved  to 
go  home  ;  but  they  were  followed  out  the  door  by  the  ear 
nest  wishes  of  the  inmates  for  their  repetition  of  the  visit, 
and  the  expression  of  a  hope  that,  when  the  minister  came 
again,  they  should  be  found  "in  better  trim"  to  receive 
him. 

The  children  huddled  about  Lucy,  and  stared  at  Mr. 
Humphreys.  The  latter  hoped  all  happiness  might  be 
theirs,  living  in  that  quiet  retirement,  and  promised  to  call 
on  them  as  often  as  his  other  duties  would  permit. 

"  There's  no  arguin'  with  him,  I  see,"  said  Miss  Buss,  as 
soon  as  they  had  the  house  to  themselves  again.  "  Brother 
Ned,  he  ain't  your  kind  exackly*" 


m, 


CHAPTER  XL 

ORDINATION    DAY. 

THE  summer  went  slowly  and  pleasantly  by,  nothing  in 
all  the  time  occurring  to  break  the  harmony  of  the  young 
clergyman's  feelings.  The  same  duties  were  to  be  per 
formed  over  and  over  again,  which,  with  God's  good  help, 
he  did  not  fail  to  perform  faithfully.  By  steady  degrees 
he  found  himself  working  his  way  into  the  holiest  affections 
of  his  people.  By  his  zealous  and  prayerful  words  he  had 
excited  them  to  increased  progress  in  the  way  of  the  true 
life.  By  his  pure  and  consistent  example  he  had,  through 
God's  grace,  been  successful  in  putting  to  rout  many  errors 
that  denunciation  alone  might  have  entrenched  still  more 
firmly  in  their  fastnesses.  By  his  daily  intercourse  he  had 
sown  seeds  of  good  that  would  in  time  spring  up,  when  the 
season  had  advanced,  and  bring  forth  fruit,  some  a  hun 
dred  fold. 

Each  Sabbath  found  his  devotion  to  the  cause  he  had 
espoused  still  deeper  than  the  previous  one,  as  if,  with 
every  succeeding  week's  labor,  the  necessity  of  yet  more 

(133) 


134  OtTR   PARISH. 

arduous  and  undivided  labor  made  itself  apparent.  His 
efforts  out  of  the  pulpit  were  active  in  the  support  of  his 
efforts  in  it.  He  visited,  at  all  convenient  and  possible 
times,  around  in  his  parish.  He  never  forgot  the  sick,  or 
the  poor,  or  the  despondent  and  weary-hearted.  He  was 
constant,  in  season  and  out  of  season,  to  his  sacred  calling. 
He  made  only  this  the  business  of  his  life. 

As  a  natural  consequence,  the  sympathies,  at  first,  and 
then  the  affections,  and,  finally,  the  deep  love  of  his  parish 
surrounded  him  all  the  time.  In  this  brief  period  he  had 
grown  inexpressibly  dear  to  them.  They  recognized  in 
him  the  pastor  whose  zeal  was  constantly  to  warm  their 
own,  when  it  might,  from  worldly  causes,  show  signs  of 
growing  cold ;  whose  words,  drawn  from  close  and  constant 
study  of  the  Scriptures,  were  to  enlighten  them  in  their 
path,  and  fire  them  with  a  worthy  ardor  for  Christ,  and 
soothe  them  under  all  manner  of  afflictions,  and  whose 
daily  walk  and  conversation  were  to  furnish  them  examples 
for  their  own  instruction  and  imitation. 

He  had  exchanged  pulpits  several  times  with  the  few 
brethren  who  ministered  in  the  adjoining  towns,  and  begun 
an  acquaintance  with  them  which  he  really  thought  might, 
if  continued,  prove  eminently  profitable  both  to  himself  and 
his  charge.  There  was  Mr.  Thompson,  the  clergyman  at 
Northboro',  a  man  a  little  advanced  in  life,  with  a  wide 
experience  of  men  and  things  that  might  be  serviceable  to 
himself.  He  had  a  large  family  of  children,  which  he  kept 
together  by  the  strictest  economy  and  the  farthest  foresight 


ORDINATION  BAY.  135 

possible.  He  carried  on  a  bit  of  a  farm  likewise,  which 
helped  not  a  little  in  making  the  ends  meet,  as  the  years 
went  round. 

And  Mr.  Burr  preached  in  Upton,  a  pleasant  village  to 
the  westward,  that  promised  some  day  to  become  a  greater. 
And  in  another  direction  was  the  town  of  Grassville,  where 
Mr.  Hawley  had  charge  of  the  flock.  Mrs.  Hawley  was 
a  young  woman,  who,  to  make  the  acquaintance  still  more 
pleasant,  had  formerly  been  to  school  at  the  academy  in 
Thornton,  where  she  formed  attachments  for  some  of  Mr. 
Humphreys'  dearest  friends.  He  liked  especially  to  go  over 
to  Grassville,  and  talk  about  his  old  acquaintance  in  Thorn 
ton,  where  he  had  himself  been  the  preceptor  of  the  acad 
emy,  and  studied  for  the  ministry,  too.  And  there  were 
some  few  little  matters,  of  a  strictly  confidential  nature, 
that  he  imparted  to  Mrs.  Hawley,  inasmuch  as  she  was  a 
dear  friend  of  years'  standing  to  one  of  the  parties,  and 
could  more  exactly  sympathize  with  his  feelings  than  any 
one  else.  To  the  eastward,  ten  miles  away  nearly,  the 
rough  and  rocky  town  of  Redcliff  clambered -and  stumbled 
about  over  the  hills  —  a  much-scattered  settlement,  yield 
ing  but  a  slim  congregation  of  weekly  worshippers,  and  a 
poor  support  for  a  clergyman,  unless  he  was  content  to  dig 
it  up  among  the  rocks  and  stones  with  the  rest  of  them. 
This  parish  Mr.  Williams  had,  one  of  the  humblest  and 
most  devoted  of  Christians  himself,  who  never  murmured 
even  when  his  lot  was  hardest,  and  saw  through  the  dark 
ness  of  all  earthly  trials  only  pledges  of  greater  joys  that 


136  OUR   PARISH. 

were  ready  in  the  world  to  come.  His  pious  zeal  was  con 
tagious  ;  and  having  wrought  faithfully  in  his  Master's 
vineyard  for  so  many  years,  going  on  from  victory  to  vic 
tory  each  succeeding  year,  he  was  calculated  to  inspire  so 
young  a  laborer  as  Mr.  Humphreys  with  a  deeper  and 
more  steadfast  love  for  souls,  and  excite  him,  by  the  warmth 
and  constancy  of  his  example,  to  increased  effort  in  the  race 
he  had  set  before  him.  The  society  of  Mr.  Williams  was 
worth  very  much  to  the  young  clergyman ;  and  their  inter 
views,  brief  as  they  often  were,  still  left  a  lasting  influence 
on  the  labors  of  the  latter  in  his  little  parish. 

Thus  situated  and  thus  surrounded,  Mr.  Humphreys  felt 
as  if  he  had  in  reality  put  his  hand  to  the  plough.  Every 
day  the  work  he  had  to  do  became  more  apparent.  His 
labors  shaped  themselves  before  his  eyes,  and  mapped 
themselves  out  visibly  before  his  mind.  Often  his  spirit 
was  depressed  with  the  fear,  that  beset  him  unawares,  of 
not  being  competent  to  the  great  task  he  had  chosen ;  but 
when,  at  such  moments,  he  went  on  his  knees  to  Heaven  in 
prayer,  he  never  failed  to  see  his  way  clearer,  and  to  feel 
his  heart  strengthened  to  persist  in  its  pursuit. 

With  many  varieties  of  experience,  and  among  his  own 
parishioners  and  his  fellow-laborers  in  the  adjoining  towns, 
he  had  found  that  the  summer  had  been  spent.  The  first 
bright  and  golden  autumn  days  were  come,  with  their 
shows  of  rich  fruits  and  their  promise  of  yellow  leaves. 
The  church  had  been  deliberating  with  themselves  for 
Borne  time,  and  at  length  the  result  of  their  conferences 
was  made  known. 


ORDINATION   DAT.  137 

The  church  committee  extended  him  an  invitation  to 
settle  over  them  as  their  pastor. 

Here  was  cause  for  serious  consideration. 

Some  of  them  —  so  it  transpired,  finally  —  were  a  little 
fearful  of  losing  so  good  a  man  as  Mr.  Humphreys  unless 
they  engaged  him  before  the  expiration  of  his  year ;  and, 
accordingly,  it  was  determined  to  give  him  "  a  call "  forth 
with,  before  he  might  think  of  looking  round  for  another 
parish. 

Long  and  prayerfully  did  he  think  the  subject  over  with 
himself.  He  sifted  all  his  feelings;  he  examined  closely 
every  thought  of  his  heart;  he  tried  every  desire  of  his 
soul,  intent  on  knowing  if  he  could  conscientiously  labor 
always  with  this  people.  The  labor  was  to  be  lifelong  ;  for 
so  pastors  were  settled  in  those  days.  The  responsibility 
he  was  to  assume  was  great  for  a  young  heart,  even  if 
never  so  full  of  hope,  to  think  of.  It  was  a  matter  that 
had  to  do  not  with  his  own  welfare  alone ;  it  was  related 
intimately  to  the  eternal  interests  of  those  who  were  to  be 
confided  to  his  watchfulness  and  care. 

Many  hours  at  a  time  were  passed  by  the  young  clergy 
man,  in  his  study,  in  weighing  and  considering  the  subject. 
He  carried  all  to  his  Maker,  and  took  counsel  only  of  him. 
If  it  was  his  will  for  him  to  abide  here,  and  here  work  out 
his  destiny,  then  it  would  in  some  way  be  made  known  to 
him.  He  would  seek  the  answer  to  his  inquiries  by  con» 
tinued  watching,  reflection,  and  prayer. 

And  the  answer  was  finally  given  him.    He  felt  himself 


138  OUR   PARISH. 

called  to  labor  with  this  particular  people,  believing  that 
here  was  the  true  field  of  his  service.  Ambition  might 
have  whispered  to  him  of  wider  fame  than  he  could  ever 
hope  to  enjoy  in  a  seclusion  like  this ;  and  selfishness  might 
have  held  up  before  his  mind  unfavorable  comparisons 
between  his  quiet  life  here  and  the  more  noticeable  lives 
of  some  of  his  early  friends ;  and  worldliness  have  strug 
gled  to  choke  out  his  high  and  pure  resolution  with  its 
worthless  weeds  ;  but  he  steadily  beat  them  all  back,  rely 
ing  on  God  for  his  strength  to  overcome  temptation,  and 
looking  to  him  for  his  final  approval  and  reward. 

The  committee  thought  it  better  to  proceed  with  the 
ordination  at  as  early  a  day  as  possible,  not  waiting  for  the 
year  to  expire.  At  this  season,  when  the  harvest  was 
nearly  in,  and  the  roads  were  in  good  condition,  and  the 
atmosphere  was  dry  and  clear,  it  would  be  most  convenient 
for  the  whole  flock  to  be  assembled  to  witness  the  cere 
mony;  and  people  from  other  towns  would  gather  with 
them  in  considerable  numbers. 

So  it  was  arranged  that  Mr.  Humphreys  should  be  or 
dained  at  an  early  period.  The  day  fixed  for  the  ceremony 
was  as  pleasant  a  day  as  ever  dawned  in  the  golden  autumn. 
Early  in  the  morning  the  village  began  to  exhibit  unwonted 
signs  of  life.  For  days  before  the  farmers  from  all  around 
had  been  bringing  in  of  such  stores  for  the  village  people 
as  they  had  to  sell,  against  the  event  that  would  make  so 
large  demands  on  their  supplies.  Meats  and  vegetables 
were  distributed  in  profusion  at  every  house  along  the 
street. 


•;-v 

ORDINATION    DAY.  139 

At  eleven  o'clock  in  the  forenoon  the  exercises  at  the 
meeting  house  were  to  begin.  The  sheds  were  all  filled 
with  horses  and  wagons ;  the  galleries  were  filled  with  peo 
ple  ;  the  choir  was  ample  and  in  perfect  preparation  for 
the  worshipful  assistance  they  were  to  give ;  and  crowds 
loitered  around  the  door.  Nearly  all  the  houses  were 
emptied  of  their  inhabitants,  who  had  come  out  to  partici 
pate  in  the  ceremonies  of  the  time. 

Quite  a  knot  of  clergymen  had  assembled  from  the  towns 
and  villages  round  about,  some  the  guests  of  one  family, 
and  some  of  another.  The  two  deacons  had  their  share ; 
and  Mr.  Bard,  and  Mr.  "Wilkinson,  and  Dr.  Jennings  per 
formed  their  part  likewise.  This  was  a  day  that  was  made 
more  of  formerly  than  now,  especially  in  country  parishes, 
where  the  welfare  of  the  church  seemed  but  the  welfare 

*  of  the  people,  as  it  in  reality  is.     Hence  the  cause  of  so 
general   an  interest  among  those  who  dwelt  even  miles 
away  from  Brookboro'.      The   clergymen,  likewise,  were 
additionally  interested,  inasmuch  as  a  new  brother  was,  that 

•  day,  to  be  permanently  added  to  their  scattered  and  far- 
apart  band.     They  were  receiving  into  their  midst  one  who 
was  to  be  a  companion  and  fellow-worker  for  life. 

The  meeting  house,  therefore,  was  crowded.  The  exer 
cises  opened  with  prayer  by  one  of  the  brethren  from  a 
distance.  It  was  a  solemn  and  impressive  supplication, 
beseeching  the  blessing  of  Heaven  on  the  work  which  was 
that  day  to  be  accomplished.  All  joined  in  it  from  their 
hearts. 


140  OUR  PARISH. 

The  reading  of  the  Scriptures  was  by  another,  who 
selected  the  most  appropriate  passages  for  the  occasion 
that  enjoined  truth,  and  humility,  and  charity,  and  faith  on 
both  pastor  and  peopb,  in  order  that  both  might  work 
together  for  the  advancement  of  God's  kingdom  and  tho 
glory  on  earth  of  his  name. 

The  sermon  itself  was  a  deeply  impressive  production. 
It  rehearsed  the  chief  points  that  constituted  the  close 
relationship  about  to  be  entered  upon  by  both  parties ; 
gathered  up  all  the  separate  and  diverse  interests  of  each, 
and  sought  to  fuse  them  into  one  common  mass  that  be 
longed  only  to  Heaven ;  portrayed  the  feelings  with  which 
the  efforts  of  a  faithful  servant  of  God  should  be  received 
by  the  people  over  whom  he  was  called,  and  the  quick 
sympathy  that  should  accompany  him  in  every  one  of  his 
labors ;  and  drew,  finally,  a  picture  of  the  happiness  of  a 
devoted  pastor  who  had  surrendered  his  trust  again  to  his 
Father,  and  beheld  himself,  in  the  last  great  day,  sur 
rounded  by  the  flock  over  which  he  had  been  placed  as 
an  earthly  shepherd. 

The  address  to  the  young  pastor  himself  was  such  as 
affected  him  openly  to  tears.  If  ever  man  tried  to  realize 
the  full  and  complete  sense  of  the  responsibility  he  was 
taking  on  his  soul,  he  certainly  had.  And  it  was  the  almost 
perfect  realization  of  this  responsibility  that  made  him 
tremble,  and  almost  falter,  at  the  very  threshold  of  his 
undertaking. 

He  was  publicly  advised  of  the  path  he  had  chosen,  and 


ORDINATION  DAT.  141 

of  its  many  perils  and  dangers.  Unless  he  felt  his  con 
science  soberly  approving  the  step  he  was  taking,  he  should 
pause  ere  he  went  on  another  moment.  Unless  he  could 
say,  from  the  depths  of  his  heart,  that  he  felt  called  of 
Heaven  to  the  labor  he  was  about  promising  to  perform, 
he  should  hesitate,  and  consider  the  matter  thoroughly  over 
again,  with  serious  reflection  and  after  continued  prayer. 

He  was  warned  of  the  temptations  that  would  beset  him ; 
for  they  lurked  at  every  point  on  the  road  to  heaven. 
Humanity  was  weak ;  indifference  might,  at  times,  creep 
over  his  spiritual  nature ;  lukewarmness  might  set  about 
his  heart,  like  a  sluggish  and  deadening  wave ;  his  exam 
ple  might  lose  some  of  its  early  brightness,  and  his  shining 
light  grow  dull  and  dead;  a  thousand  worldly  influences 

t  were  ready  to  hedge  about  his  soul,  to  rob  it  of  some  of 
its  noble  purposes,  to  cripple  its  high  resolves,  to  weaken, 
and  undermine,  and  finally  to  destroy  its  purest  and  most 

,  effective  plans.     For  the  overthrow  of  all  these  silent  and 

r  secret  enemies,  strength  could  be  had  only  of  God.  Of 
him  he  must  seek  it,  and  seek  it  daily,  with  a  heart  that 
put  its  whole  reliance  on  the  measure  of  his  goodness  and 
bounty.  A  solemn  charge  was  delivered  to  him  respecting 
the  care  of  the  flock  which  was  at  this  time  to  be  intrusted 
to  his  hands.  He  was  solemnly  told  of  his  duty  to  that 

*  flock.  He  was  warned  against  dissensions,  and  the  foster 
ing  of  uneasiness  that  invariably  led  to  them.  The  faith  he 
was  required  to  keep,  and  to  preach,  even  as  it  was  given 
him  in  Christ  Jesus.  To  God,  the  Father  and  Judge  of 

• 


142  OUR  PARISH. 

us  all,  lie  and  his  flock  were  finally  committed,  to  whom 
they  were  accountable  for  what  was  done  here  in  the  body, 
and  in  whose  lives  were  to  be  expected  examples  of  the 
living  and  true  faith. 

The  laying  on  of  hands,  especially,  produced  a  visible 
effect  on  the  crowded  assembly.  They  remained  almost 
breathless  during  this  impressive  ceremony.  It  seemed  to 
bring  the  reality  of  the  Christian  warfare  more  directly 
before  them.  They  could  in  a  greater  measure  feel  what 
the  sacredness  of  the  Christian  ministry  was.  And  there, 
in  that  crowded  little  country  meeting  house,  many  a  sim 
ple  heart  was  that  day,  for  the  first  time,  touched  with  love 
to  God,  and  with  that  ceremony  dated  its  beginning  in  the 
life  of  faith,  and  purity,  and  godliness. 

An  appropriate  hymn  was  sung  by  the  choir,  after  which 
the  doxology  was  joined  in  by  the  entire  congregation. 
O,  how  strangely  beautiful  sounded  the  notes  of  that  dear 
old  hymn,  and  the  echoes  of  those  village  voices,  as  they 
gathered  and  spread  over  the  silent  street !  What  a  holy 
spot,  even  then,  seemed  that  quiet  little  town !  as  if  the 
selfish  world  were  all  shut  out,  —  its  cares,  its  griefs,  its 
ambition,  its  deceit,  —  and  only  Heaven  and  the  Spirit  of 
Heaven  hung  gently  over  the  whole  place.  How  many 
simple  hearts  felt  the  immediate  presence  in  their  midst 
of  a  Power  that  wings  itself  wherever  faithful  worshippers 
are  gathered  together ! 

Mr.  Humphreys  pronounced  the  benediction,  the  assem 
bly  rising  to  receive  it ;  and  then  the  public  exercises  were 
closed. 


ORDINATION  DAT.  143 

It  was  a  day  to  be  remembered,  no  less  in  the  calendar 
of  the  clergyman's  life  than  in  that  of  the  lives  of  the 
people  —  a  great  day  for  the  church  there,  and  for  the 
entire  parish  by  which  the  circle  of  its  influence  was 
limited. 

Mr.  Humphreys  retired,  first  of  all,  to  his  study,  and 
threw  himself  on  his  knees  in  prayer. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

THE  MINISTER'S  WIFE. 

THE  autumn  was  waning  slowly,  its  greatest  glories 
beginning  to  fade  out.  The  mornings  were  frosty  and  the 
evenings  chill ;  and  only  in  the  pleasant  noons,  when  the 
hills  were  begirt  with  hazy  smokes,  like  colored  transpar 
encies,  did  the  sun  feel  genial  at  all. 

Mr.  Humphreys  was  seriously  thinking  of  undertaking 
the  next  important  step  of  his  life. 

He  took  Deacon  Burroughs  into  his  room  one  afternoon, 
and  there  proceeded  to  disclose  to  him  what  he  had  in 
contemplation.  He  was  about  to  get  married  ! 

The  deacon  opened  his  eyes  quite  widely,  as  one  who 
had  never  before  thought  of  such  a  thing  naturally  would. 

"  I  only  want  to  know  if  you  can  continue  to  accommo 
date  me,  with  my  wife,"  said  Mr.  Humphreys,  "  through 
the  winter.  If  perfectly  convenient  to  your  family,  of 
course  I  should  by  all  means  prefer  to  stay  here.  In  the 
spring,  I  suppose,  I  shall  go  into  the  parsonage,  and  begin 
housekeeping  in  good  earnest." 

(144) 


THE  MINISTER'S  WIFE.  145 


Deacon  Burroughs,  for  himself,  would  be  tery  glad  to 
have  Mrs.  Humphreys  board  with  his  family ;  and  he  would 
forthwith  proceed  to  lay  the  subject  before  his  wife.  But 
wasn't  this  a  rather  sudden  affair  ? 

"  O,  no,  by  no  means,"  said  Mr.  Humphreys. 

"But  /  hadn't  heard  any  thing  of  it  before." 

"  Nor  any  one  else,  I  presume.  In  fact,  it  is,  up  to  this 
very  hour,  my  own  secret.  I  have  committed  it  to  but  one 
other  friend,  Mr.  Hawley,  of  Grassville,  whose  wife  was  an 
old  and  close  friend  of  the  future  Mrs.  Humphreys,  and 
who  is  himself  going  to  supply  my  pulpit  in  my  necessary 
absence.  O,  no,  deacon ;  it's  not  a  sudden  matter.  I  have 
ihad  it  in  my  mind  for  nearly  two  years." 

The  deacon  answered  by  a  low  "  Hum,"  sinking  his  chin 
deeper  in  his  cravat,  and  musing  on  it. 
I   "  Suppose  you  do  not  say  any  thing  of  it  to  your  wife 
until  night,"  said   Mr.  Humphreys ;   "  and,  even   then,  it 
•will  be  a  gratification  to  me  if  the  matter  is  not  talked  of 
|at  all  until  my  return  with  the  real  Mrs.  Humphreys." 
•    "  O,  yes,"  assented  the  deacon  ;  "  I'll  say  nothing  about 
it ;  and  I'm  sure  my  wife  won't,  if  I  just  tell  her  it's  your 
Wish." 

"  It  is.     I  hope  she  won't." 

"  Never  fear,  Mr.  Humphreys  ;  never  fear.  I  think  we 
can  do  for  you  all  you  desire.  Mrs.  Humphreys  shall  be 
made  just  as  comfortable  as  possible  when  she  gets  here, 
no  matter  where  she  boards.  Yes,  I'll  see  my  wife  about 
it  all  to-nigTit.  She  can't  have  any  other  mind  than  /  have 
10 


146  OUR   PARISH. 

about  it.  We  should  hate  to  have  you  leave  us ;  and  I 
know  we  should  like  to  try  and  make  Mrs.  Humphreys 
comfortable.  But  in  getting  ready  a  little  for  you,  I  sup 
pose  my  wife  will  be  obliged  to  tell  Lucy  something  about 
what's  going  to  happen." 

"  O,  certainly.  I  have  no  special  reason  of  importance 
for  wishing  to  keep  the  matter  a  secret ;  I  simply  think  it 
will  be  as  well.  Such  things  are  generally  talked  about  a 
good  deal,  you  know,  deacon ;  and  I  think  it  will  be  time 
enough  to  begin  the  discussion  when  I  get  back.  That 
is  all." 

"And  that's  reason  enough,  Mr.  Humphreys.  I  am 
exactly  of  your  mind  in  this  matter.  But  who  is  the  Mrs. 
Humphreys  that  is  to  be  ?  May  I  be  so  bold  as  to  ask 
her  name  ?  " 

"  I  will  tell  you  gladly,  deacon.  She  is  at  present  Miss 
Caroline  Edmonds,  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Edmonds  of  Thorn 
ton.  I  taught  the  academy  there  a  long  time,  and  studied 
there  at  the  same  time." 

"  Ah  ! "  answered  Deacon  Burroughs. 

"  I  intend  going  there  next  week,  and  shall  be  absent  in 
all  about  a  fortnight.  Then  I  hope  you  and  your  wife  can 
accommodate  us  here." 

"  And  I  haven't  any  doubt  that  we  can.  I  will  talk  to 
Mrs.  Burroughs  about  it  this  very  evening." 

The  next  morning,  when  Mr.  Humphreys  came  down  to 
breakfast,  he  met  the  deacon  and  his  wife  with  the  usual 
salutations  —  his  own  spirits,  perhaps,  a  little  raised  by  the 


THE  MINISTER'S  WIFE.  147 

near  prospect  of  the  coining  event.  He  observed,  after  a 
while,  however,  that  Mrs.  Burroughs  had  considerably  less 
to  say  to  him  than  common,  and  even  drew  back  into  a  man 
ner  bordering  on  reserve.  She  sat  a  silent  listener  to  the 
conversation  between  him  and  her  husband.  He  thought 
but  little  or  nothing  of  it  at  first,  but  it  presently  forced 
itself  painfully  on  his  attention.  Something  had  gone 
wrong.  What  could  it  be  ?  Could  it  have  any  connection 
with  himself? 

The  matter  seemed  rather  to  grow  worse  than  better  in 
the  course  of  a  day  or  two ;  and  he  could  not  help  observ 
ing  that  Lucy  appeared  quite  as  strangely  as  her  mother. 
Still  he  was  at  a  total  loss  to  account  for  it  all.  They 
committed  no  overt  act  by  which  he  might  be  made  to 
understand  that  he  was  the  object  of  their  displeasure ;  yet 
he  could  not  but  see  that  their  displeasure  was  certainly 
excited,  and  excited  for  what  he  could  not  tell. 

They  arranged,  however,  promptly  to  receive  the  minis 
ter's  wife  to  board,  promising  them  an  additional  room  and 
all  the  comforts  at  their  command.  Mrs.  Burroughs 
averred  that  she  really  had  a  great  curiosity  to  see  Mr. 
Humphreys'  wife.  She  wished  so  much  to  see  what  his 
taste  could  be. 

Mr.  Humphreys  laughed,  and  said  he  thought  she  would 
approve  of  it  thoroughly.  And  the  deacon  himself  had  no 
doubt  that  he  should.  But  Miss  Lucy,  —  she  seemed  to 
think  nothing  at  all  about  it ;  or  perhaps  she  thought  dif 
ferently  about  it  from  what  she  should. 


148  oun  PARISH. 

The  very  next  Monday,  therefore,  the  clergyman  start 
ed  off  for  Thornton.  No  one  knew,  save  Deacon  Bur 
roughs'  family,  for  what  purpose  he  absented  himself, 
though  all  supposed  it  was  business  of  some  urgent  nature. 
Tt  was  understood  that  Mr.  Hawley  would  supply  his  pulpit 
for  one  or  two  Sabbaths,  as  the  case  might  be. 

And  now  we  will  skip  over  these  two  intervening  weeks 
with  a  good,  hearty  jump.  Undoubtedly  a  wedding  is  a 
very  important  affair,  considered  in  whatever  light  you  will. 
It  is  far  too  much  so  for  me,  just  now,  to  attempt  its  proper 
portrayal.  The  sympathetic  reader — he  or  she  who  has 
witnessed  these  events  and  reflected  upon  them  carefully — 
will  need  no  assistance  I  can  render  in  filling  up  the  out 
lines  of  such  a  picture  with  such  colorings  as  are  best 
suited  to  its  true  character. 

I  will  next  introduce  my  reader  to  the  newly-married 
pair  returning  to  Brookboro'.  It  happens  to  be  one  of  the 
loveliest  afternoons  in  the  latter  part  of  autumn — the  sun 
shining  warm  and  clear,  the  atmosphere  perfectly  trans 
parent,  a  light  veil  of  haze  draping  the  base  of  the  distant 
hills,  the  leaves  fallen  and  falling,  and  every  object  breath 
ing  the  air  of  the  sweet  and  pleasant  sadness  that  attends 
this  peculiar  season. 

They  had  come  to  Grassville  by  public  conveyance. 
There  they  stopped  to  see  Mrs.  Hawley,  the  bride's  old 
friend  and  schoolmate.  The  meeting  between  them  was 
joyous  indeed.  They  congratulated  themselves  on  being 
finally  situated  so  near  each  other,  and  hoped  they  might 


THE  MINISTER'S  WIFE.  149 

long  cooperate  with  their  husbands  and  together  to  fulfil 
the  whole  of  the  work  set  before  them. 

Mr.  Hawley  still  remained  at  Brookboro',  occupying  Mr. 
Humphreys'  study.  He  has  left  his  horse  and  buggy  at 
home  for  the  latter,  who  is  to  drive  over  from  Grassville 
to  Brookboro'  with  his  wife  in  that.  Thus  he  thinks  the 
bride  will  both  have  a  much  pleasanter  ride  than  by  stage 
coach,  and  obtain  a  better  view  of  the  country  around  her 
new  home. 

It  is  about  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  when  the 
horse's  head  is  turned  to  the  sight  of  the  quiet  little  vil 
lage.  The  first  view  of  it  was  got  from  near  the  summit 
of  one  of  the  long  hills  to  the  southward ;  and  a  delight 
ful  view  it  was,  too. 

There  lay  the  little  town,  folded  quietly  in  the  bosom  of 
the  hills.  The  street  that  formed  the  backbone,  so  to  call 
it,  of  the  town  was  distinctly  perceptible,  the  old  straggling 
elms  raising  their  towering  crests  above  the  white  and 
brown  houses,  the  road  looking  at  that  distance  like  a  mere 
footpath  beaten  white,  and  far  away  to  the  north  disap 
pearing  finally  in  its  windings  over  the  hills  again. 

A  small  stream,  hardly  larger  than  a  good-sized  "brook, 
bounded  the  village  on  the  east,  that  swept  silently  down 
through  the  meadows  that  skirted  the  hill,  and  finally  gath 
ered  volume  and  force  a  mile  below,  and  leaped  agilely 
over  the  rocks  and  stones  that  strove  hard  to  keep  back  its 
course.  From  this  little  stream  the  town,  or  rather  the 
village,  had  taken  its  name.  A  row  of  willows  fringed  the 


150  OUR  PARISH. 

banks  of  the  brook,  just  now  denuded  of  their  leaves,  but 
in  the  summer  season  beautifully  draped  with  their  grace 
ful  coverings.  A  bridge  could  be  discerned  spanning  the 
stream  at  near  the  upper  end  of  the  village,  over  which  the 
people  who  lived  beyond  the  hill  were  obliged  to  enter 
the  town. 

In  that  genial  autumn  day,  in  the  midst  of  such  charming 
scenery,  rocks,  hills,  haze,  and  waters  on  all  sides,  the  nov 
elty  of  the  view  operating  especially  on  the  feelings  of 
one  of  the  party,  it  is  no  wonder  that  this  first  ride  into 
Brookboro*  was  ever  after  treasured  away  in  the  memory 
of  the  young  bride  with  peculiar  satisfaction,  to  be  recurred 
to  with  repeated  and  increased  delight. 

She  was  of  rather  slight  figure,  of  medium  height,  —  my 
readers  may  be  curious  to  obtain  all  the  details,  —  with 
dark  eyes  and  hair,  a  pleasant  and  highly  intelligent 
countenance,  and  manners  full  of  the  most  childish  sim 
plicity.  She  was  continually  calling  her  husband's  atten 
tion  to  the  changing  beauties  of  the  landscape,  exclaiming 
quite  freely  in  her  unmingled  pleasure. 

A  brown  habit  she  wore,  that  fitted  her  form  very  snug 
ly,  and  -gave  her  a  remarkably  petite  appearance.  About 
her  neck  was  fastened,  by  a  modest  pin  before,  a  narrow 
collar  of  plain  linen,  that  looked  very  white  and  tasteful 
under  her  fair  chin  and  clear  cheeks.  Her  hat  was  a 
hackney  straw,  with  the  simplest  trimmings  possible,  and 
worn  with  all  the  ease  that  hat  could  be  worn  by  any  one. 
She  kept  drumming  her  foot  continually  on  the  carriage 


THE  MINISTER'S  WIFE.  151 

bottom,  and  exclaiming  at  the  charming  views  that  opened 
to  her.  As  she  came  in  sight  of  the  village  itself,  her 
husband  merely  remarked,  as  he  pointed  off  with  his  whip 
in  its  direction,  — 

"  There  —  that  is  Brookboro'." 

For  a  moment  she  did  not  speak.  Her  quick  eyes  were 
measuring  the  whole  of  the  picture.  At  length  she  ex 
claimed,  — 

"  How  pleasant !  how  delightful !  I  know  I  shall  love 
to  live  here." 

"  If  I  had  not  thought  so,"  said  he,  "  I'm  sure  I  never 
should  have  consented  to  settle  here  myself.  One  can  be 
of  no  service  in  the  cause  of  Christ  unless  his  heart  is  in 
the  whole  work ;  and  how  could  I  help  having  my  feelings 
distracted  somewhat  if  I  were  knowing  that  you  were  un 
happy  ?  I  could  not,  and  so  I  should  fail  of  the  mark 
I  have  set  before  me.  No,  Carriej  I  was  fully  persuaded 
that  you  would  love  this  people  when  you  knew  thorn. 
Here  we  will  pitch  our  tent,  till  called  upon  to  strike  it  for 
the  long  journey.  Here  we  will  labor  and  strive  together 
to  win  souls  to  Christ,  and  to  build  up  his  everlasting  king 
dom.  In  this  field  our  work  shall  lie :  let  us  pray  God  it 
may  be  done  faithfully." 

He  pressed  her  hand  affectionately  while  speaking ;  and 
when  he  turned  to  look  in  her  face,  he  found  her  eyes 
swimming  with  tears. 

A  moment  more  he  continued,  while  he  suffered  his  horse 
to  walk  slowly  on :  — 


152  OUR  PARISH. 

"  If  we  ever  feel  discontented  with  our  lot  here,  Carrie, 
we  must  try  and  remember  that  it  is  God  who  has  placed 
us  in  it.  "We  are  but  laborers  in  his  vineyard ;  and  we 
have  it  not  in  our  power  to  choose  the  part  that  may  be 
easiest  for  us.  Whatever  our  hands  find  to  do,  no  matter 
where  the  spot  in  which  we  are  thrown,  that  we  must  do 
with  all  our  might.  It  is  not  for  us  to  say,  '  I  will  labor 
here/  or,  '  I  will  labor  there ; '  but  we  are  to  take  hold 
wherever  the  work  may  offer  itself.  If  we  feel  this  as  we 
should,  Carrie,  we  may  be  as  happy  here  as  any  where ; 
for  we  shall  be  happy  in  the  performance  of  our  labor  itself. 
That  will  be  its  own  exceeding  great  reward.  Let  us  hope 
that  we  may  not  come  short  in  a  single  point." 

She  earnestly  joined  in  the  hope. 

"  The  good  people  of  Brookboro',"  he  went  on,  "  are 
just  like  people  every  where  else.  Their  hearts  are  only 
human  hearts,  and  quite  liable  to  error,  as  we  are  our- 

^  mn-^. 

selves.  They  are  exceedingly  simple  in  their  manners 
and  sincere  in  their  attachments  ;  at  least  so  I  have  found 
them,  in  the  course  of  about  a  year's  close  acquaintance. 
Their  occupation  is  chiefly  that  of  agriculture ;  and  their 
wealth  consists  chiefly  of  lands,  and  stock,  and  crops,  and 
houses.  In  the  matter  of  living,  I  find  them  given  to  gen 
erous  supplies ;  so  that  I  think  there  need  be  no  fear  of 
starvation  among  them.  They  make  good  neighbors  and 
the  closest  of  friends.  Now,  if  we  go  among  them,  Carrie, 
resolved  to  see  only  the  best  side  of  their  characters,  I  think 
there  will  be  little  cause  or  room  for  discontent.  If  little 


THE  MINISTER'S  WIFE.  153 

troubles  arise,  as  they  will  every  where,  let  us  try  and 
forget  them  as  soon  as  we  can.  Such  things  grow  greater 
by  brooding  over  them.  We  will  look  only  at  the  bright 
side." 

And  he  chirruped  gayly  to  his  horse,  and  rode  on  faster. 

They  came  to  where  the  road  turned  from  the  tavern 
into  the  village  street.  The  innkeeper  stood  on  his  piazza, 
waiting,  perhaps,  for  the  arrival  of  the  stage.  He  made  a 
low  bow  at  Mr.  Humphreys,  as  he  passed,  and  then  fell  to 
staring  hard  at  his  companion,  and  finally  hurried  off  into 
the  house  to  tell  "  his  folks "  that  "  he'd  be  willin'  to  bet 
any  thing  the  minister  had  got  his  wife  with  him."  And 
they  ran  to  the  windows  to  see  the  back  of  the  carriage  as 
it  rolled  off  up  the  street. 

At  length  they  drew  up  before  the  gate  at  Deacon  Bur- 
roughs's  house,  Carrie's  heart  went  bumping  rather  excit 
edly  as  she  alighted,  and  she  could  not  repress  the  petty 
fears  that  half  haunted  her.  The  clergyman  fastened  the 
horse,  and  escorted  her  up  the  path  through  the  yard  to 
the  door.  There  they  were"  met  by  the  deacon,  who  cor 
dially  greeted  the  bride,  welcoming  her  to  his  house  and  to 
Brookboro'. 

Conducting  them  into  the  sitting  room,  where  his  family 
were,  he  introduced  Mrs.  Humphreys  to  his  wife  and  Lucy, 
and  told  them  he  hoped  they  would  do  all  in  their  power 
to  make  her  enjoy  herself  while  under  his  roof,  and  added 
that  he  hoped  she  would  content  herself  with  the  best  they 
could  furnish  her.  They  mutually  explained  their  feelings 


154  OUR  PARISH. 

in  the  matter,  and  Mr.  Hawley  came  in  right  in  the  midst 
of  it.  The  greeting  he  extended  the  bride,  and  the  con 
gratulations  he  offered  his  brother,  were  hearty  indeed. 
He  was  glad  that  he  was  assured  of  such  valuable  friends, 
neighbors,  and  coworkers,  and  promised  himself  a  great 
deal  of  future  happiness  in  their  society  and  sympathies. 

They  sat  down  to  tea,  and  a  merry  tea  drinking  it  was. 
All  were  happy.  Mrs.  Burroughs,  if  she  had  been  inex 
plicable  in  her  manner  before,  was  entirely  free  from  the 
folds  of  the  mystery  now.  And  Lucy  paid  especial  atten 
tion  to  the  bride,  engaging  her  in  agreeable  conversation 
respecting  her  journey  just  completed.  The  otlier  two 
children  came* in,  increasing  the  family  party.  The  deacon 
said  the  sight  of  a  well-filled  board  did  his  heart  as  much 
good  as  it  did  his  eyes.  And  Mrs.  Humphreys  liked  him 
all  the  more  for  the  remark. 

But  somehow  the  secret  of  his  marriage  had  leaked  out 
in  the  village  before  Mr.  Humphreys'  arrival  with  his  wife, 
and  was  made  in  some  circles  the  topic  of  free  discussion. 

How  was  it,  Mrs.  Burroughs  ?     How  was  it,  Lucy  ? 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

PARISH  OPINIONS. 

THERE  was  a  good  deal  of  talk,  all  over  the  parish, 
about  the  minister's  wife,  as  might  naturally  be  expected. 

Mrs.  Burroughs  happened  over  at  Mrs.  Bard's,  and  the 
latter  was  very  communicative  indeed. 

"  Is  she  very  young  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Bard.  "  Folks  say 
she's  a  mere  girl.  If  thctfs  the  case,  I  don't  believe  she's 
going  to  make  the  proper  person  to  be  at  the  head  of  this 
parish.  She  might  do  in  some  other  places ;  but  she  won't 
do  here" 

"  O,  well ! "  answered  Mrs.  Burroughs,  affecting  to  smooth 
away  all  such  trivial  objections  ;'  "  that's  nothing.  Yes,  she 
is  young.  My  own  Lucy  would  have  made  quite  as  good 
a  wife  for  a  minister  as  she,  and  /don't  know  but  a  better 
one.  But  then,  perhaps  she'll  get  along  after  a  while.  We 
shall  have  to  learn  her  some  things  first,  though." 

"  I  hope  she  is  modest  enough  not  to  think  she's  going  to 
take  the  lead  here  in  every  thing  right  off.  That's  more 
than  some  of  the  older  ones  I  could  mention  will  be  willing 

(155) 


156  OUR  PARISH. 

to  put  up  with.  I'm  glad,  however,  Mr.  Humphreys  is 
married,  for  I  think  a  minister  can't  be  really  useful  unless 
he  is;  and  I  hope  he'll  find  he's  got  just  such  a  wife  as  he 
wants." 

"And  so  do  I,"  added  Mrs.  Burroughs;  "but  I  don't 
see  exactly  how  he  can  really  think  he  has.  I  have  my 
doubts.  She's  nothing  but  a  girl,  sure  enough ;  and  it 
takes  some  girls  a  great  while  to  learn.  But  perhaps  she 
will  learn  fast.  I  wouldn't  have  you  say  any  thing  of  what 
I  think  about  it  for  all  the  world,  Mrs.  Bard.  'Twould 
only  make  mischief,  you  know." 

"  Certainly  not.  I  trust  I  am  not  of  the  gossiping 
school.  Yet  I  suppose  every  one  has  a  right  to  pass 
judgment  on  the  minister's  wife.  She  marries  for  the  sake 
simply  of  laboring  with  her  husband ;  and  as  his  character 
is  free  to  the  remarks  of  the  parish,  so  is  hers." 

"  That's  true  enough,  Mrs.  Bard.     It's  just  so." 

After  Mrs.  Burroughs  had  gone,  Mrs.  Bard  found  it 
necessary  to  go  over  and  make  a  brief,  a  very  brief, 
call  on  Mrs.  Sanger,  the  lawyer's  wife ;  and  Mrs.  Sanger 
was  that  night  all  the  wiser  by  the  amount  of  the  re 
marks  Mrs.  Burroughs  had  confidentially  dropped  in  Mrs. 
Bard's  ear. 

In  the  course  of  a  few  days  there  had  taken  place  in 
Brookboro'  more  little  social  gatherings  than  the  village 
had  known  for  months  together  before.  All  the  ladies 
were  extremely  busy.  There  was  something  to  talk  about, 
Instead  of  calling  directly  on  the  stranger,  as  they  really 


PARISH   OPINIONS.  157 

should  have  done,  they  had  an  idea  that  getting  together 
and  talking  about  her  would  answer  every  purpose  as 
well.  So  they  got  together  and  talked. 

Presently,  however,  the  sewing  society  met  —  this  time 
at  Mrs.  Wilkinson's. 

Of  course  it  was  expected  that  the  minister's  wife  should 
attend ;  and  it  was  equally  expected  that  she  should  assume 
the  dictatorship,  standing  ready  to  cut,  and  prepare,  and 
distribute  the  work,  and  to  direct  even  those  older  and 
much  more  experienced  than  herself  as  to  the  manner  in 
which  the  affairs  should  be  managed. 

When  she  first  made  her  appearance  in  the  afternoon 
with  Mrs.  Burroughs, — timid  and  destitute  of  self-poss^es- 
siou  as  she  was,  —  there  was  a  stir  made  through  the  room 
to  receive  her,  and  then  all  suddenly  relapsed  into  silence. 
The  young  bride  was  sensibly  embarrassed. 

She  looked  about  her  this  way  and  that ;  but  few  were 
the  countenances  that  seemed  to  offer  to  her  the  hearty 
and  ready  sympathy  of  their  owners.  Instead  of  appear 
ing  rejoiced  to  receive  her,  they  rather  gave  her  the  im 
pression  of  being  all  ready  to  begin  their  criticisms. 
But  there  was  one  face  whose  goodness  and  geniality  of 
look  attracted  her  at  once  :  it  was  that  of  Mrs.  Upton,  the 
wife  of  the  village  blacksmith.  Mrs.  Humphreys  felt  as  if 
she  could  rush  up  to  her  and  embrace  her,  so  entirely  dif 
ferent  did  she  appear  from  the  rest. 

Mrs.  Burroughs,  however,  with  the  assistance  of  Mrs. 
Wilkinson,  who  had  already  called  on  the  bride,  went 


158  CUE  PARISH. 

round  and  made  her  acquainted  with  the  entire  company ; 
yet  when  Carrie  came  to  Mrs.  Upton,  she  could  hardly 
restrain  the  feeling  that  she  was  thoroughly  acquainted  with 
her  already.  In  a  little  while  they  divided  and  subdivided 
into  knots  and  little  coteries,  at  almost  every  on$  of  which 
something  was  now  and  then  dropped  about  the  looks,  or 
the  youth,  or  the  dress,  or  the  speech,  or  the  something  else 
of  the  minister's  wife.  Public  property  she  did  seem,  sure 
enough.  None  thought  it  was  an  act  of  downright  rude 
ness  to  talk  covertly  and  in  whispers  of  her  while  she  was 
herself  present.  Simple  souls !  they  did  not  atop  to  think 
of  such  a  thing.  Our  parish  had  not  got  then  to  be  what 
it  has  become  since,  or  such  practices  never  would  have 
been  tolerated,  if  only  as  palpable  contradictions  of  its 
pretensions. 

The  conversation  was  varied,  and  carried  on  at  varied 
points.  The  object  of  it  all  quietly  picked  up  some  work, 
and  went  to  sewing  with  the  rest  of  them.  Could  it  have 
been  possible  that  she  failed  to  understand  what  they  mostly 
talked  upon  ?  And  if  not,  was  that  young  heart  made  any 
the  gladder  —  here  in  the  midst  of  strangers  —  in  knowing 
that  she  was  received  with  such  distance  and  reserve,  bor 
dering,  in  fact,  on  downright  suspicion  ? 

"She  dresses  plain  enough,"  whispered  a  young  girl  to 
the  widow  Thorn,  glancing  at  her  person,  so  modestly 
attired. 

Mrs.  Thorn,  of  course,  turned  her  head,  and  fixed  her 
eyes  fast  on  the  victim. 


PARISH   OPINIONS.  159 

"  She  can't  be  any  older  than  you,"  returned  Mrs.  Thorn. 

"  Phew !  I  guess  she  is,"  said  the  other,  rather  in 
dignant. 

The  widow  laughed,  and  bent  over  to  her  work  again. 

"  Do  you  think  she's  so  very  good  looking  ?  "  asked  one 
of  Mrs.  Thorn's  daughters  of  a  girl  who  sat  near  her. 
"  I'm  sure  /  don't  understand  what  good  looks  are,  if  she's 
handsome." 

"  No,  I  don'V  was  the  rejoinder.  "  I  never  knew  who 
it  was  that  started  that  story.  It's  an  unfortunate  one  for 
her,  whoever  did." 

Another  joined  them. 

"  I  guess  Lucy  Burroughs  don't  like  her  any  too  much," 
said  the  first. 

"And  every  body  thought,  of  course,  Lucy  would  be 
Mrs.  Humphreys  before  any  one  else  was,"  chimed  hi  the 
second.  "  I  shouldn't  think  she  would  like  her.  / 
shouldn't." 

This  was  followed  by  a  titter. 

"  But  I  don't  see  what  so  very  attractive  there  is  about 
her  for  a  man  like  Mr.  Humphreys.  I  thought  he  would 
look  higher  than  that,  as  inteijjgent  and  handsome  as 
he  is." 

And  yet  they  agreed  that  he  ought  to  have  taken  Lucy 
Burroughs,  and  only  because  so  the  general  notion  of  the 
parish  had  directed  the  matter ! 

All  the  girls  immediately  threw  their  eyes  over  in  the 
direction  of  Mrs.  Humphreys. 


160         -  OUR  PARISH. 

"  She  must  find  Mrs.  Upton's  society  very  interesting. 
I  wonder  if  her  father  is  a  blacksmith." 

"  Fie !  fie !  "  exclaimed  another.  "  What  a  bold  thing 
you  are ! "  And  both  fell  a-laughing. 

"  I  suppose  she  thinks  that,  because  she's  married,  she 
must  mix  only  with  married  folks,"  remarked  another. 
«Ha!  ha!" 

"  At  any  rate,  I  wouldn't  give  up  my  young  feelings,  if 
I  was  married." 

"  Or  even  if  I  was  a  minister's  wife." 

"  No,  indeed.  I'd  be  only  so  much  the  more  independ 
ent.  People  should  know  that  I'd  do  just  as  I'd  always 
done." 

"  But  perhaps  old  company  is  all  she's  had.  If  so,  it's 
very  natural  she  should  keep  to  it  now." 

They  all  acquiesced  in  that  idea. 

From  what  her  quick  eyes  and  her  quicker  perceptions 
taught  her,  Carrie  felt  very  certain  that  she  was  the  chief 
object  of  the  conversation  of  the  girls  who  had  grouped  them 
selves  in  the  corner.  She  was  resolute,  although  just  now 
she  had  felt  so  timid.  With  natures  like  hers,  it  was  only 
a  step  over  the  line  frorn^tiimdity  to  the  exhibition  of  the 
highest  degree  of  courage. 

She  immediately  took  her  work,  therefore,  and  went 
straight  into  the  midst  of  the  young  circle,  and  began  to 
interest  herself  in  conversation  with  them. 

Had  a  bombshell  fallen  among  them,  it  could  hardly 
have  produced  a  greater  commotion.  They  hurriedly 


PARISH   OPINIONS.  161 

moved  back  their  chairs  to  make  room  for  her,  and  drew 
down  their  faces,  and  looked  as  sober  as  they  could.  And 
now  and  then  one  exchanged  a  sly  glance  with  another, 
which  might  have  meant  every  thing,  but  which  neither 
understood. 

"  I  hope  I  shall  not  interfere  with  your  good  humor 
here,"  said  the  young  wife.  "  I  really  envied  you,  you  all 
seemed  in  such  spirits.  I  came  over  to  have  a  good  laugh 
with  you." 

Their  faces  colored  extremely;  and  she  would  persist 
in  looking  straight  into  every  one  of  them,  as  if  perfectly 
innocent  of  all  knowledge  of  the  cause  of  their  blushes. 
It  was  excellent  chastisement  for  them,  for  it  was  self- 
imposed  and  bred  of  shame. 

She  began  at  once  to  engage  them  in  conversation, 
speaking  first  of  the  pleasantness  of  Brookboro',  and  of 
the  natural  picturesqueness  of  its  street,  and  the  agreeable 
character,  so  far  as  she  knew,  of  the  people.  This  they 
received  as  another  rebuke. 

From  one  thing  to  another  she  dexterously  passed,  bent 
only  on  exciting  their  interest  in  whatever  she  brought 
up.  It  was  not  her  intention,  by  any  means,  to  do  all  the 
talking  herself,  consenting  to  their  being  mere  listeners; 
but  she  put  questions,  now  to  one  and  now  to  another,  pur 
posely  to  draw  all  into  the  circle  of  the  conversation.  And 
before  they  once  thought  of  such  a  thing,  they  were  really 
deeply  engaged.  This  was  a  triumph  for  the  young  stran 
ger.  Yet  she  had  no  vindictiveness  in  it  all;  she  only 

11 


162  OUR   PARISH. 

wished  to  remove  prejudices,  and  supplant  them  with  the 
right  impressions  to  be  derived  from  acquaintance. 

They  could  see,  in  a  moment,  —  for  they  were  not  blind, 
—  how  superior  were  her  manners  and  intelligence  to  their 
own,  and  did  not  fail  to  fit  their  qualifications  into  the  exact 
places  where  they  of  propriety  belonged.  Still  she  was 
unwilling  to  place  any  one  under  the  least  constraint  in  her 
presence,  but  strove  to  make  them  feel  only  at  their  ease 
and  properly  companionable. 

"  I  should  think  our  minister's  wife  was  rather  fonder 
of  young  company  than  any  other,"  remarked  Mrs.  Thorn 
to  Mrs.  Sanger. 

"  So  it  looks  at  present,"  returned  the  lawyer's  wife. 

"  "Well,  girls  will  be  girls,  I  s'pose  ;  leastways,  I  never 
found  that  they  wouldn't.  But  I  don't  think  it's  just  the 
thing  to  get  into  just  such  a  frolic  of  laughter  as  they  are 
having  there  the  very  first  time  she  meets  with  the  society. 
Do  you,  Mrs.  Sanger  ?  " 

"  I  can't  say  I  do.  Yet,  as  you  say,  girls  will  be  girls. 
However,  perhaps  we  may  feel  it  our  duty  to  teach  her  a 
lesson  or  two  yet.  If  it  should  be,  I  hope  she  will  take  it 
just  as  it's  intended." 

"  She  won't ;  she  won't.  You  never  saw  a  young  minis 
ter's  wife  that  would." 

"  Well,  I  must  say,  then,  that  I  shall  set  her  an  exam 
ple,  from  which  she  will  be  able  to  see  her  proper  place. 
How  can  we  expect  her  to  know  about  these  things,  so 
young  and  inexperienced?" 


PARISH    OPINIONS.  163 

"  Sure  enough,  we  can't.  /  don't,  leastways.  She's  got 
to  learn." 

Carrie,  did  you  pause  to  think,  before  entering  on  the 
path  you  had  chosen,  of  the  crosses  and  obstacles,  mixed 
and  multiplied,  of  the  backbitings  and  envy,  of  the  hasty 
speech  and  the  hastier  prejudices,  of  the  spoken  opinions 
and  the  unuttered  faultfindings,  that  would  be  sure  to  follow 
you  in  your  journey,  like  a  pack  of  starving  wolves  after 
their  prey  ?  Did  ever  a  dream  sweep  across  your  brain 
of  the  sinister  motives  that  would  be  freely  ascribed  to 
your  very  goodness,  and  of  the  uncharitable  versions  that 
would  be  put  upon  your  very  benevolence  ? 

Yes,  yes  ;  you  thought  of  it  all.  You  tried  to  realize  it 
all.  He  whom  you  loved,  and  with  whom  you  joined  so 
nobly  your  earthly  fortune,  that  with  your  feeble  hands, 
under  God,  you  might  help  in  building  up  his  kingdom,  — - 
he  had  told  you  of  it  all.  There  had  been  nothing  kept 
back.  The  whole  breadth  and  length  of  the  story  was 
spread  before  you.  You  determined  to  face  all,  to  endure 
all,  to  try  and  change  all  —  a  harder  task  than  heart  like 
yours  could  understand. 

But  there  was  One  who  endured  what  you  can  never 
endure,  though  you  go  lingeringly  through  the  windings 
of  all  earthly  pains.  He  took  upon  himself  wrongs  far 
greater  than  humanity  alone  can  ever  suffer.  It  was  only 
for  your  sake  —  for  the  sake  of  us  all  freely.  And  then 
it  is  sweet  for  you  to  know  that  your  heart  can  be  wound 
ed,  even  ever  so  slightly,  for  his  name.  You  can  recall 


164  OUK  PARISH. 

his  sufferings,  —  how  they  reviled  and  buffeted  him,  how 
they  spat  upon  him  and  put  on  his  head  a  crown  of  thorns, 
how  they  tried  and  crucified  him,  —  and  it  makes  all  your 
petty  trials  seem  small  —  O,  how  small! — by  the  com 
parison. 

And  you  go  forward  in  the  path  you  have  chosen,  hoping 
to  win  over  to  yourself  by  love  alone. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

GOING  TO  HOUSEKEEPING. 

THE  winter  wore  away  slowly  at  Deacon  Burroughs^, 
but  quite  pleasantly.  Mr.  Humphreys  devoted  himself 
with  renewed  zeal  and  energy  to  the  task  of  his  life,  being 
constant  in  labor,  ready  in  deeds  of  benevolence  and  sym 
pathy,  and  openhearted  and  openhanded  with  all.  As 
tjie  society  added  to  the  number  of  its  meetings,  his  wife 
found  more  favor  at  the  hands  of  those  who  were  at  first 
so  ready  to  judge  her,  and  felt  that  she  was  gradually 
winning  her  way  into  their  hearts.  The  objections  some 
raised  to  her  usefulness,  on  account  of  her  youth,  were 
soon  in  a  fair  way  of  being  surmounted ;  and  the  very  con 
sideration  of  youth  began,  finally,  to  be  her  chief  recom 
mendation  to  their  closest  sympathies. 

The  agreement  between  the  committee  of  the  parish  and 
the  young  minister  amounted  to  this:  they  were  to  pay 
him,  for  the  present,  at  the  rate  of  four  hundred  and  fifty 
dollars  a  year  in  money ;  he  was  to  occupy  the  parsonage, 
as  long  as  he  staid  with  them,  rent  free  j  and  the  parish 

(165) 


166  OUR   PARISH. 

promised,  by  presents  and  the  like,  to  make  up  seventy-five 
or  one  hundred  dollars  additional,  as  their  ability  might  be. 
For  those  days,  when  frugality  and  low  prices  ruled  with 
all  classes  of  people,  this  was  esteemed  a  liberal  offer ;  so 
Mr.  Humphreys  thought  himself,  and  so  his  brethren  in 
the  neighboring  towns  told  him. 

In  the  month  of  March  a  quantity  of  furniture  came 
over  from  Thornton,  the  provision  of  the  young  wife's 
father.  The  parsonage  had  been  thoroughly  repaired  and 
cleaned,  inside  and  out,  and  got  ready  for  the  reception  of 
the  furniture.  Mr.  Humphreys  had  been  careful  enough 
to  lay  up  a  little  sum  from  the  savings  of  his  school  teach 
ing,  and  upon  this  he  relied  to  begin  housekeeping  with. 
The  task  was  quite  as  new  to  him  as  it  was  to  his  wife,  or 
the  other  way  either. 

For  several  weeks  previous  he  had  been  engaged  in 
preparing  his  sermons  in  anticipation  of  this  event,  know 
ing  that  it  would  be  too  busy  a  time  with  him  then  to  do 
justice  to  his  texts  or  to  himself.  So  he  had  three  or  four 
discourses  ready  to  rely  upon,  until  h'is  feelings  should  be 
quieted  enough  for  him  to  resume  mental  labor  again. 

They  went,  early  in  the  morning,  over  to  the  parsonage, 
and  staid  till  dinner  time,  and  then  back  again  after  din 
ner,  not  returning  until  tea.  Where  lifting  was  to  be  done 
Mr.  Humphreys  had  plenty  of  assistance,  many  of  the  men 
in  the  village  volunteering  their  services,  but  Mr.  Upton 
staying  till  the  end.  The  ladies  came  in  and  made  the 
carpets,  and  put  them  down,  and  insisted  on  arranging  all 


GOING   TO   HOUSEKEEPING,  167 

the  furniture,  putting  up  the  beds,  and  setting  things  away 
in  the  closets.  It  was  a  real  merrymaking  for  them,  the 
younger  ones  especially. 

Finally,  they  put  all  things  in  readiness.  Nancy  Kivera 
—  or,  as  every  body  called  her,  old  Nance —  was  at  their 
right  hand  continually.  She  washed  the  paint  and  the 
windows,  and  scoured  the  floors,  and  did  the  severer  part 
of  the  labors  that  devolved  on  her  sex.  The  men  brought 
in,  one  a  ham,  another  a  pair  of  late  chickens,  another  a 
present  of  a  pile  of  butter  cakes,  some  one  thing  and  some 
another.  All  seemed  ready  to  open  their  hearts  and  their 
hands.  Mr.  Edward  Buss,  —  he  could  hardly  come  him 
self,  for  he  had  more  wall  to  lay  and  fence  to  put  up  than 
he  could  do  in  six  months,  (so  he  said ;)  but  he  sent  over 
his  ever-ready  sister  Nancy  with  a  long  link  of  sausages 
and  a  nice  sparerib ;  and  his  wife  sent  in  some  of  what 
she  called  her  best  brown  bread  and  a  small  sage  cheese  ; 
and  Miss  Nancy  brought  over  all  in  the  wagon  with  the 
wall-eyed  mare,  pulling  lustily  at  the  bits  and  chirruping 
gayly  from  the  moment  she  turned  into  the  village  street 
till  she  drew  up,  in  independent  style,  before  the  parsonage 
door. 

The  farmer,  Mr.  Johnson, — he  did  not  seem  to  forget  the 
"  lift "  Mr.  Humphreys  gave  him  at  ploughing  the  spring 
before ;  and  he  brought  down  some  corned  beef  and  salt 
pork,  telling  his  minister  that  nobody  could  go  to  house 
keeping,  and  oughtn't  to  think  of  such  a  thing,  unless  he 
had  beef  and  pork  in  his  cellar  —  this  he  considered  the 
real,  substantial  standby  of  human  existence. 


168  OTJE   PARISH. 

Mr.  Humphreys  told  them  that,  if  matters  went  on  at 
this  rate,  he  should  feel  quite  ready  to  set  up  a  store,  rather 
than  the  science  of  keeping  house ;  at  which  they  all 
laughed,  and  laughed  still  harder  as  the  remark  was  fol 
lowed  by  another  present  —  this  time,  of  potatoes  and 
cabbages. 

"  I  shall  have  nothing  to  buy,"  he  exclaimed.  "  I  shall 
have  a  plenty  to  be  benevolent  with,  following  your  own 
good  example." 

Mr.  Thistle,  the  keeper  of  the  tavern,  just  then  entered 
the  kitchen,  bearing  a  huge  bag  of  meal  on  his  back. 

"Where'll  I  put  this,  Mr.  Humphreys  ?"  he  called  out. 

They  received  the  call  with  a  shout  of  laughter. 

"  But,  with  all  this,  I  must  keep  pigs ;  and  I  had  not 
thought  of  that  just  yet." 

"  I've  got  one  pig  I'll  give  you  now,"  said  Mr.  Johnson 
forthwith  ;  "  and  I  guess  I  can  hunt  you  up  another  to  go 
with  it.  Two  will  do  better  than  one,  you  know." 

"  I  guess  one  will  do  all  /  shall  want  him  to,"  said  Mr. 
Humphreys,  thanking  him  in  words  that  were  but  partially 
heard  in  the  pleasant  confusion  of  laughing  voices. 

Miss  Buss  thought  the  best  part  of  it  would  be  to  look 
out  and  not  eat  up  all  they  brought  themselves,  but  to 
leave  that  part  for  the  recipients  of  their  bounty. 

But  Mr.  Humphreys  thought  there  would  be  quite 
enough  left  for  himself,  even  if  they  ate  all  they  wanted, 
and  much  more,  too.  And  he  begged  them  not  to  feel  at 
all  delicate  about  becoming  his  guests,  as  he  was  their 
grateful  debtor. 


GOING  TO  HOUSEKEEPING.  169 

Mrs.  Humphreys  was  as  grateful  as  grateful  could  be, 
and  her  manner  showed  it  plainly  enough.  The  very  girl- 
ishness  of  her  disposition,  with  which  some  of  the  older 
ones  had  found  fault  at  first,  added  a  native  charm  to  the 
gratitude  she  tried  vainly  to  utter,  and  attached  them  to 
her  only  the  more.  Nobody  could  be  fresher,  and  more 
innocent,  and  truer  in  her  feelings  than  she.  With  such 
persons  as  some  of  the  ladies  of  our  parish,  how  could  it 
be  other  than  a  most  welcome  character  for  them  to  study  ? 

When  tea  was  got,  on  that  first  evening  at  the  parsonage, 
after  one  of  the  busiest  days  the  young  husband  and  wife 
had  ever  known  together,  almost  all  their  friends  were  gone. 
It  was  thought  as  well  by  them  —  for  even  the  most  un 
charitable  of  them  could  be  considerate,  if  they  chose  —  to 
suffer  the  young  couple  to  sit  down  at  their  first  evening 
meal  with  their  own  uninterrupted  thoughts.  This  certainly 
was  a  happy  idea,  and  quite  as  delicate  as  it  was  happy. 
Yet  both  Mr.  Humphreys  and  his  wife  insisted  on  Deacon 
Burroughs  and  his  wife  sitting  down  with  them  —  it  would 
seem  so  much  more  natural,  and  so  much  more  like  home, 
to  see  them  at  the  table.  So  they  complied  with  the 
request. 

The  tea  was  nice,  and  Mrs.  Burroughs  praised  it.  Mr. 
Humphreys  thought  if  an  old  housekeeper,  like  Mrs.  Bur 
roughs,  could  praise  his  wife's  first  cup  of  tea,  she  had  great 
cause  to  feel  encouraged.  Both  the  young  people  were  a 
little  awkward  at  first  —  or  perhaps  it  was  embarrassment, 
feeling  rather  more  like  being  waited  upon  by  the  deacon 


170  OUR   PARISH. 

and  his  wife  than  like  waiting  on  them.  The  tables  were 
turned  so  suddenly  it  would  take  them  some  time  to  get 
used  to  it. 

After  supper,  and  the  clearing  away  of  the  dishes,  all  sat 
in  the  charmed  old  family  circle  around  the  hearth,  on 
which  Mr.  Humphreys  had  made  a  blazing  fire  of  ash 
and  hickory,  and  there  talked  freely  and  familiarly  of  the 
present  and  the  future.  How  happy  Carrie  felt  at  that 
hour !  What  a  yearning  desire  had  she  for  her  dear 
mother  to  sit  down  beside  her  in  this  her  own  room,  in 
her  own  house,  before  her  own  blazing  hearth  !  She  tried 
many  a  time  that  evening  to  imagine  Mrs.  Burroughs 
stood  in  the  stead  of  that  mother;  yet  something  was 
wanting  to  make  so  delightful  a  fancy  quite  real.  Can 
there  be  any  other  feeling  exactly  like  the  feelings  of  a 
young  housekeeper  as  she  sits  down  to  eat  the  first  do 
mestic  meal,  and  dreams  in  the  blaze  of  the  first  even 
ing  fire  ? 

But  it  was  earlier  than  nine  o'clock  when  the  deacon 
took  his  wife  home ;  for  he  said  he  knew  they  must  be 
completely  worn  out  with  the  work  and  confusion,  and 
needed  rest  as  soon  as  they  could  get  if.  And  he  pleasantly 
urged  them  to  shut  up  the  house  and  go  to  bed. 

This  was  in  the  early  part  of  April.  It  was  quite  cold 
yet,  for  the  spring  had  not  come  forward  any  faster  than  it 
is  in  the  habit  of  doing  nowadays.  The  snow  was  gone, 
except  here  and  there  in  streaks  and  patches  under  the  old 
stone  walls,  where  it  looked,  over  on  the  hillsides,  like  the 
rent  shroud  of  the  winter. 


GOING  TO  HOUSEKEEPING.  171 

Carrie,  in  her  new  house,  took  greater  delight  than  ever 
in  watching  the  coming  on  of  spring,  and  cast  wistful  eyes 
over  the  yard  and  garden,  as  if  she  longed  already  to  be 
digging  in  the  dirt  among  her  plants.  She  pointed  out 
spots  where  she  would  have  certain  trees  and  shrubs  of  her 
own  choice  planted ;  here  a  vine,  and  there  a  rose  tree ; 
here  a  clump  of  syringas,  and  there  a  small  fir.  The  back 
door  was  to  be  made  so  neat  and  pleasant,  in  time ;  the 
rubbish  should  all  be  cleared  away,  and  the  fence  be  righted, 
and  the  ground  swept  clean  and  hard  in  the  paths.  And 
she  meant  to  lay  out  a  small  bed  of  flowers  in  this  corner, 
and  train  some  sort  of  flowering  vines  under  that  window, 
and  set  a  pretty  bush  a-growing  right  at  this  angle,  where 
it  would  hide  all  roughnesses.  O,  there  was  hardly  any 
telling  what  she  was  not  going  to  do,  and  do  it  all  that 
spring !  She  only  longed  for  the  weather  to  come  warm 
enough  for  her  to  begin. 

"  I  have  thought  of  a  pretty  name  to  bestow  on  our 
pleasant  little  snuggery  here,  Carrie,"  said  Mr.  Humphreys, 
while  they  sat  over  the  fire  one  evening  talking  of  contem 
plated  improvements. 

"  Do  let  me  have  it,  then ;  for  I  have  kept  my  thoughts 
quite  busy  of  late  on  that  very  subject,"  returned  she. 
"What  is  your  name?" 

"  Ingleside."  He  gave  her  a  short  pause  to  get  its  full 
sound.  "Ingleside,"  he  repeated.  "Do  you  like  it?" 

"  Sweet  indeed  !  I  like  it  exceedingly.  It  suggests 
many  pleasant  thoughts  and  feelings  to  me.  Then  *  Ingle 


172  OTIR  PARISH. 

side '  is  the  name  of  this  dear  place  from  this  day  hence 
forth.  It  shall  be  known  as  such  by  our  friends  every 
where." 

"  But  the  place  needs  some  dressing  up,"  continued  he, 
"  or  people  of  good  taste,  and  of  the  right  sentiment,  will 
laugh  at  the  inconsistency  between  the  thing  itself  and  its 
name.  Now  this  little  porch  before  the  door,  —  that  can 
be  improved  so  much  that  even  the  oldest  inhabitants 
won't  know  it.  I  can  give  it  a  robe  of  leaves  that  will 
beautify  it  beyond  what  you  now  imagine." 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  catching  his  spirit ;  "  the  woodbine,  or 
the  honeysuckle,  or  the  trumpet  creeper  —  yes,  there  are 
a  plenty  of  flowering  vines  to  make  our  selection  from.  I 
want  something  that  will  grow  rapidly,  and  yet  grow  hand 
some." 

"  And  profusely  too.  Nothing  is  prettier  than  the  honey 
suckle — the  white  species  in  particular.  Its  flower  is  so 
fragrant,  too,  it  would  scent  the  whole  house  when  the  win 
dows'  are  open." 

"  And  let's  have  a  couple  of  firs  to  stand  sentry  by  the 
two  posts  of  the  gate !  I  like  that  idea." 

"  It  is  a  good  one ;  and  two  firs  shall  be  put  there. 
Then  I  can  get  two  evergreens  from  the  woods  myself, 
that  people  think  good  for  nothing  except  to  grow  in  the 
woods  out. of  sight,  and  these  I  shall  put  one  on  each  side 
of  the  walk,  in  the  centre  of  the  plot.  Do  you  want  flower 
beds?" 

"  Yes ;  two  narrow  ones  just  each  side  of  the  path  ;  they 


GOING  TO  HOUSEKEEPING.  173 

relieve  the  green  of  the  grass  beyond,  and  are  a  pleasant 
attraction  to  the  eye  of  a  stranger." 

"I  trust  none  will  be  strangers  here/'  remarked  Mr. 
Humphreys.  "I  hope  it  will  seem  like  home  to  all  my 
little  flock/' 

"And  these  little  improvements  are  exactly  what  will 
make  it  look  like  home  to  them  sooner  than  any  thing 
else.  They  will  expect  to  find  happiness  where  these 
beautiful  things  form  the  outworks.-  There  is  little  misery 
among  flowers.  They  betray  the  traits  of  the  heart  as 
soon  as  any  thing  can." 

As  the  season  opened,  therefore,  and  the  sun  began  to 
grow  warmer,  and  the  soft  rains  to  beat  gently  and  fer- 
tilizingly  on  the  mellow  earth,  they  joined  hands  in  the 
out-of-door  work,  giving  their  little  grounds  as  busy  an 
appearance  as  those  of  the  busiest  farm.  They  hoed,  and 
planted,  and  watered;  they  dug  up  and  covered;  they 
spaded  and  set  out;  they  sowed  seeds,  and  fixed  frames 
on  which  the  expected  flowers  were  to  run.  The  villagers 
stopped  now  and  then,  as  they  went  by,  to  observe  the 
progress  they  made  in  their  pleasant  morning  and  evening 
labors,  and  wondered  how  it  was  that  some  people  could 
make  a  spot  look  so  like  an  earthly  paradise  that  others 
would  always  suffer  to  remain  desert  ground. 

By  the  middle  of  June  their  toils  began  to  exhibit  the 
first  fruits.  All  things  seemed  to  do  well.  The  firs, 
though  they  should  have  been  set  out  the  November  be 
fore,  perhaps,  were  thrifty  and  green.  The  seeds  sprang 


174  OUR   PARISH. 

up  profusely.  'The  vines  began  to  twine  around  the  posts 
of  the  little  porch,  and  promised  to  be  soon  climbing  to  the 
cornices  and  the  roof.  There  was  every  thing  to  encourage 
them  in  the  prospect.  They  could  already  look  forward  in 
hope  to  the  days  when  they  might  really  sit  under  their 
own  vine,  though  the  literal  fig  tree  should  be  wanting. 


CHAPTER    XV. 

THE  HEART  OF  A  CREDITOR. 

THESE  annals  have  to  do  with  all  classes  and  characters 
of  people  in  our  parish,  or  they  would  neither  be  impartial 
nor  give  the  exact  impressions  that  should  be  given  of  the 
relation  between  pastor  and  people.  These  do  not  meet 
simply  on  Sundays,  and  afterward  go  separate  ways 
through  the  week;  their  connection  is  close  the  week 
through.  What  touches  the  sympathies  of  the  one  natu 
rally  moves  those  of  the  other.  In  country  parishes  is  this 
especially  true. 

There  was  sickness  in  the  humble  dwelling  of  Mr. 
Chauncey,  that  stood  off  the  main  road,  at  the  farther  north 
end  of  the  village  —  his  eldest  girl,  the  oldest  of  three  chil 
dren,  being  marked  for  the  victim.  The  house  was  a  very 
poor  affair,  although  it  had  for  many  years  sufficed  to  pro 
tect  the  laboring  man's  little  brood.  It  was  destitute  out 
wardly  of  the  signs  of  comfort  that  all  men  with  a  healthy 
Btate  of  heart  naturally  covet  —  there  being  no  fence  to 
keep  off  intrusions  from  the  open  road  and  give  an  air  of 

(175) 


176  OUR   PARISH. 

home  to  the  place,  and  the  wood  pile  accumulating  chips 
and  rubbish  for  them  rather  faster  than  it  could  be  used. 

In  all,  there  were  Mr.  Chauncey,  and  his  wife,  and  his 
three  children ;  the  eldest,  named  Mary,  could  not  at  this 
time  have  been  more  than  between  six  and  seven  years, 
while  the  youngest  was  a  mere  infant.  Mr.  Chauncey  had 
always  been  a  hardworking  man,  temperate  and  industrious, 
and  seemingly  anxious  to  get  forward  in  the  world.  Yet 
he  had  never  been  able  to  reach  even  the  beginning  of  his 
desires,  for  he  was  still  very  poor  and  involved  in  debt. 
The  house  he  had  lived  in  so  many  years  was  rented  of  a 
farmer  who  lived  out  of  the  village  —  a  rather  hard  man, 
with  little  disposition  about  his  house  except  a  very  decided 
one  to  obtain  his  rent  money  just  as  fast  as  it  became  due. 
In  order  to  meet  this  demand,  the  poor  man  was  often 
obliged  to  pay  his  way  in  labor  for  the  farmer,  when  he 
was  pretty  sure  to  throw  in  more  than  his  landlord  ever 
did,  as  the  poor  invariably  do.  "Why  is  it  that  they  are 
expected  to  be  so  liberal  in  adjusting  accounts,  while  the 
other  and  more  favored  side  are  never,  or  rarely  ever, 
guilty  of  concession  ? 

Little  Mary  Chauncey  was  very  sick  indeed.  She  had 
been  ailing  for  several  days  before  she  had  finally  taken  to 
her  bed ;  and  her  mother  deferred  this  latter  necessity 
as  long  as  she  could.  But  now  it  could  be  put  off  no 
longer. 

The  father  was  anxious ;  but  he  had  no  time  to  indulge 
in  feelings  like  that.  Early  and  late  he  must  be  at  his 


THE   HEART    OF   A   CREDITOR.  177 

work,  or  he  would  be  thrown  out  of  employment  entirely. 
No  one  can  tell  what  his  thoughts  were,  however,  while 
alone  in  the  fields  where  he  wrought  through  the  long  days. 
Still,  he  felt  that  to  labor  was  his  duty,  he  being  the  only 
stay  of  the  house  ;  if  he  should  stop  work,  who  would  pay 
the  doctor's  bills  and  the  njedicine  bills  ?  who  would  pro 
vide  for  the  well  ones,  that  they  might  minister  to  the 
needs  of  the  sick  ? 

When  he  came  home  at  night,  tired  and  jaded  as  he 
always  was,  he  sat  down,  as  soon  as  he  entered  the  house, 
by  the  bedside  of  his  little  girl,  and  asked  her  how  she  felt, 
and  if  she  was  not  going  to  get  well,  and  said  what  he 
thought  might  encourage  her  and  raise  her  dying  spirits. 
He  could  not  yet  see  all  that  his  wife  thought  she  could 
see.  He  could  not  understand  how  much  her  heart  and 
strength  failed  her,  from  day  to  day,  as  the  watchful  mother 
could.  He  was  not  able  to  see  how  the  eyes,  once  bright 
and  full,  grew  more  and  more  sunken,  as  he  looked  anx 
iously  into  them  each  recurring  night.  This  was  left  for 
the  mother  alone. 

He  came  home  from  his  labor,  one  night,  rather  later 
than  usual,  and  much  more  tired  than  he  had  been  in  many 
days.  After  going  to  the  bedside,  and  speaking  tenderly 
a  few  moments  to  his  child,  and  gently  brushing  away  the 
hair  with  his  rough  hand  from  her  forehead  and  temples, 
he  went  and  took  his  chair  beside  the  open  window  in  the 
kitchen.  The  child  was  lying  on  the  bed,  in  a  little 
bed  room. 

12 


178  OUR  PARISH. 

Hardly  had  he  seated  himself  when  his  wife  approached 
and  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm.  He  looked  up,  evidently 
much  troubled. 

"  What  —  what  ?  "  he  stammered  in  a  low  voice.  "  Do 
you  think  she's  any  better,  mother  ?  " 

"  I'm  afraid,"  she  answered ;  and  her  emotion  appeared 
to  choke  her  utterance. 

"  Has  the  doctor  been  here  to-day  ?  He  didn't  come 
yesterday,  you  know." 

"  Yes  ;  he  left  her  this  afternoon." 

"  What  did  he  say  about  her  ?" 

"  Nothing  at  all,  only  that  she  must  have  the  very  closest 
watching,  and  be  kept  as  quiet  as  she  could.  He  shook 
his  head,  though,  and  looked  very  solemn  about  it." 

The  father,  for  a  moment,  was  silent  and  thoughtful. 
He  had,  for  some  days,  been  troubled  a  good  deal  about 
many  things  that  he  had  carefully  kept  all  knowledge  of 
from  his  wife ;  was  this  other  far  more  terrible  trouble 
about  to  break  over  his  head,  and  weigh  down  his  heart  to 
the  very  dust  ? 

" I'm  afraid"  again  remarked  the  mother.  "  The  symp^ 
toms  are  dreadful  bad.  What  if  wre  should  lose  her  ? " 
and  she  put  her 'apron  to  her  eyes. 

ft  O,  don't  —  don't  feel  so  !  It  can't  be  that  that  trouble's 
in  store  for  us.  What  have  we  done  to  deserve  any  thing 
so  dreadful  as  that  ?  " 

"  Isn't  there  something  lackin',  James  ?  Don't  we  de 
serve  some  such  affliction  as  this  ? " 


mm 

THE  HEART   OF  A   CREDITOR.  179 

The  question  silenced  him. 

"  Perhaps  we're  ungrateful,"  she  sadly  continued.  "  But 
I've  tried  not  to  be.  And  Mary's  always  been  such  a  good 
little  girl,  and  is  always  so  ready  to  do  for  me.  James, 
how  can  we  think  of  it  ?  " 

He  threw  his  eyes  out  the  window  into  the  shadows  of 
the  road.  For  some  moments  he  appeared  lost  in  his  own 
saddened  reflections. 

• 

"  Her  pulse  isn't  so  good  as  it  has  been ;  it's  more  irreg 
ular.  Poor  Mary !  —  poor,  dear  little  one  I  How  can  I 
think  of  it?" 

She  paced  quietly  to  and  fro  for  some  time.  At  length 
she  started  and  went  to  the  side  of  the  sick  one.  The 
father's  ears  were  open  to  every  syllable. 

"  Don't  you  feel  any  better,  Mary  ?  "  her  mother  asked 
the  child,  employing  a  tone  of  the  most  tender  compassion. 
"  Does  your  head  hurt  you  as  much  as  it  did  ?  " 

»The  child,  who  had  been  dozing,  opened  her  large  blue 
eyes,  and  looked  straight  up  in  her  mother's  face  at  the 
question. 

"  Don't  you  feel  so  well,  Mary  ? "  repeated  Mrs. 
Chauncey. 

"  I  don't  know,"  half  whined  the  little  lamb,  turning  her 
face  over  on  the  pillow ;  and  the  faint  reply  was  followed 
by  a  groan. 

t"  Don't  you  know  mother  ?  " 
No  answer. 
The  distressed  mother  laid  her  palm  across  the  child's 
hot  forehead. 


180  OUR  PARISH. 

"  Can  it  be,"  thought  she  to  herself,  —  "  can  it  be  that 
I  must  lose  this  dear  child  ?  Who  shall  be  to  me  then 
what  she  has  been  —  what  she  is  now  ?  Poor,  dear 
thing !  If  I  only  knew  what  I  could  do  to  relieve  you,  it 
would  be  done  in  a  minute.  If  I  could  but  think  of  any 
thing  for  you  I  have  not  thought  of  yet,  how  gladly  I 
would  hasten  to  do  all  there  was  left  undone ! " 

And  other  thoughts  that  mother  had,  and  shadows  of 
thoughts,  while  standing  over  the  bed  of  her  sick  child,  in 
that  summer  evening,  such  as  she  dared  not  pursue  whither 
they  sought  to  carry  her  —  such  as  trailed  long  clouds  of 
gloom  over  her  sky,  almost  blotting  out  hope.  Ah,  how 
hard  it  is  to  tell  what,  at  such  times,  may  be  the  sufferings 
of  a  mother!  How  poor  is  the  richest  sympathy  at  an 
hour  when  the  heart  hungers  for  more  than  any  earthly 
sympathy  can  yield ! 

She  had  forgotten  about  her  husband's  supper,  and  so 
indeed  had  he.  It  was  all  ready  for  him  on  the  table 
against  his  coming  ;  and  there  it  still  stood,  untasted.  Eat 
ing  was  not  a  thing  thought  of  then.  Grief  had  consumed 
appetite  itself,  and  troubled  thought  had  driven  out  every 
thing  else. 

While  the  mother  still  stood  over  the  bed,  she  heard 
her  husband's  footsteps,  across  the  naked  kitchen  floor, 
going  to  the  door  and  then  speedily  returning.  She 
stepped  to  the  bed-room  entrance  to  see  if  he  wanted  any 
thing. 

"  I'll  help  you  to  your  supper  in  a  minute,"  whispered  she, 


THE   HEART    OP  A   CREDITOR.  181 

a  tear  starting  slowly  down  one  of  her  cheeks,  but  which 
it  was  too  dark  to  perceive. 

"No  matter,  now,  for  that/'  he  quickly  answered,  be 
traying  much  excitement,  yet  striving  hard  to  keep  it  down. 
«  How  is  she  ?  How  is  Mary  ?  " 

"  No  better,  I'm  afraid.  But  what  ails  you,  James  ? 
Has  any  thing  happened  ?  Tell  me  quick." 

"  Nothing  more'n  what  I've  been  expectin'  this  many  a 
day ;  but  I've  tried  to  keep  it  all  from  you.  You'll  have 
to  know  it  now,  though." 

"  James,  what  do  you  mean  ?    Tell  me." 

For  the  first  time,  having  now  reached  the  middle  of  the 
kitchen,  she  perceived  the  figure  of  a  man  standing  in  the 
doorway. 

"  Who's  that  ?  "  she  quickly  asked,  much  excited. 

"  He  ?  That's  the  deputy  sheriff.  He's  after  me.  I 
must  go,  I  s'pose." 

"  What  does  he  want  of  you  ?  James,  tell  me  —  have 
you  done  any  thing  wrong  ?  " 

"  No  more  than  to  owe  a  man  more'n  I  can  pay  him  as 
soon  as  he  wants  me  to.  So  I'm  goin'  to  jail  —  that's  all." 

He  spoke  in  a  tone  that  betrayed  the  effort  his  feelings 
made  to  deaden  themselves  altogether  at  this  most  trying 
juncture.  Well  enough  did  he  know  from  what  he  was 
about  to  be  separated,  —  a  single  thought  laid  all  that  before 
him,  —  but  he  was  struggling,  like  a  drowning  man  for  sal 
vation,  to  keep  all  that  back,  out  of  sight,  till  the  dreadful 
reality  should  come  upon  him  itself. 


182  OUR  PARISH. 

"  Let  me  see  my  little  ones  once  more,"  he  said,  groping 
his  way  into  the  bed  room.  "  Mary  —  dear  little  Mary  ?  " 
he  called.  But  she  did  not  answer  him. 

"  So  sick  ! "  said  he,  pitifully,  smoothing  her  hot  forehead 
and  kissing  it.  The  child  gave  a  slight  troubled  groan. 
"  If  'twould  only  get  well  again,  its  father  would  feel  so 
glad  !  Poor  little  Mary  ! "  —  and  she  groaned  again. 

The  mother  stood  just  at  the  bed-room  door,  undeter 
mined  in  her  confusion  what  to  do  or  what  ought  to  be 
done.  She  laid  her  hands  on  her  husband's  arm  as  he  came 
out,  and  looked  up  into  his  face.  It  was  not  yet  the  mo 
ment  for  grief.  The  suddenness  of  this  shock  had  nerved 
her  to  a  temporary  strength  she  could  have  got  nowhere 
else.  She  was  even  calm  — -  he,  too,  was  calm,  in  the  midst 
of  that  terrible  tempest. 

"James,"  said  she,  in  a  low  voice,  "are  you  going  to 
leave  me  at  such  a  time  as  this  ?  —  little  Mary  almost  dy 
ing  !  nobody  here  with  me,  and  nobody  to  send  for  help ! 
James  —  James  !  " 

O,  how  those  syllables,  every  one  of  them,  went  like 
deadly  bolts  through  his  soul,  tearing  and  rending  every 
thing  in  their  way! 

"  Don't  say  another  word ! "  he  replied,  fearfully  calm. 
"  I  must  go.  There's  no  help  for  it.  Poor  little  Mary ! 
God  help  you  all ! " 

"  But  what  is  it  for  ?  Who  sends  you  to  jail  for  a  debt 
at  this  time  ?  Can't  you  be  allowed  to  stay  with  me  even 
till  morning  —  till  we  know  how  it  will  be  with  the  poor 
child?" 


THE  HEART   OF  A  CBEDITOR.  183 

«  No  —  no.  It's  all  over  with  me.  I  must  go.  This 
man  has  rode  ten  miles  for  me,  and  wants  to  get  back  as 
soon  as  he  can.  You'll  find  out  all  about  it  soon  enough ! 
Good  by ! "  —  and  he  wrung  her  hand. 

"  Come !  I'm  waiting,  Chauncey  I "  called  the  man  at 
the  door,  rather  impatiently. 

"  Only  keep  up  courage  while  I'm  gone  —  that's  all !  I 
can't  have  to  stay  long,  that's  certain.  It  does  seem  as  if 
some  o'  the  men  I've  worked  for  would  help  me  in  such  a 
dreadful  strait  as  this.  Good  by,  then !  Sha'n't  I  never 
see  little  Mary  again  ?  Poor  thing  — poor  thing  !  " 

Was  ever  a  sigh  of  deeper  anguish  drawn  from  human 
heart  than  that  which  followed  from  his  heart  after  these 
words  were  spoken? 

He  went  out  through  the  door,  leaving  his  wife  watching 
his  retreating  figure  as  it  vanished  into  the  dark.  He  had 
left  all  his  world  behind  him ;  wife,  children,  hearthstone, 
all !  Death  was  hovering  over  that  humble  roof  with 
his  broad  wing,  threatening,  vulture-like,  to  snatch  the 
most  promising  one  of  the  whole  flock.  Ah,  what  a  wall 
of  blank  despair  hemmed  him  in  now  on  every  side! 
What  harpy  thoughts  crouched  around  his  heart,  ready  to 
tear  it  asunder  and  divide  among  themselves  the  scattered 
fragments  !  How  many  deaths  died  he  in  that  single  night 
—  a  night  full  of  apprehensions,  and  grief,  and  wretched 
ness,  and  fear ! 

The  distracted  wife,  now  coming  suddenly  to  the  full 
sense  of  her  afflictive  desolation,  glanced  at  the  untasted 


184  .  OUR   PARISH. 

supper  on  the  table,  and  burst  into  tears.  That  sight  was 
the  last  little  straw  lain  on  the  great  burden  of  her  sorrows  j 
and  before  that  she  yielded  in  a  moment. 

The  debtor  went  rattling  off  over  the  darkened  country 
road  in  the  direction  of  the  county  town,  offering  up  him 
self  and  all  his  quickest  and  dearest  sympathies  to  satisfy 
the  ravenous  appetite  of  the  law ;  a  law,  in  justice  to  the 
progressive  spirit  of  humanity,  let  it  be  said,  that  has  long 
since  (as  a  general  thing)  been  swept  out  of  existence. 

What  a  night  for  the  deserted  wife  and  helpless  mother ! 
How  often  did  she  pray  for  the  assistance,  trifling  as  it 
might  be,  that  never  came !  How  frequent  were  her 
prayers,  how  fervent,  how  oft  repeated,  that  Heaven 
would  kindly  interpose  to  stop  the  burning,  destroying  fever 
of  this  grief! 

The  hours  were  long  —  O,  how  long!  Alone  in  that 
far-off  house,  cut  off,  as  it  were,  from  human  sympathy, 
her  heart  preying  hungrily  on  itself,  —  whose  is  the  con 
dition  that  could  appeal  more  successfully  to  compassion 
than  hers? 

It  was  a  little  after  two  o'clock,  by  the  little  wooden 
clock  on  the  shelf,  when  she  leaned  over  ^the  bed  of  little 
Mary  and  watched  her  breathing.  It  seemed  frightfully 
quick,  and  irregular,  and  unequal. 

She  spoke  to  her.     But  the  child  made  no  answer. 

She  put  her  cheek  down  to  the  little  one's  cheek.  "  Ma 
ry,"  she  whispered,  "  don't  you  love  your  dear  mother  ?  " 

The  breathing  came  and  went,  faster  and  faster,  slighter 


THE   HEART    OP   A   CREDITOR.  185 

*  '  * 

and  slighter.  There  was  nothing  left  of  it.  It  was 
gone ! 

The  mother  put  her  fingers  on  the  thin  wrist  to  feel  the 
pulse.  It  had  done  throbbing.  Life  had  gone  out  with  its 
low  ebbing. 

Darling  child  !  it  was  a  saint  in  heaven !  Poor  moth 
er  !  who  can  measure  grief  with  such  as  you  ? 

And  he  who  should  have  been  there  at  that  humble  bed 
side  to  catch  the  dying  breath  of  his  first-born, — he  who 
had  toiled  daily  with  hands  and  brain  to  compass  the  fond 
dreams  he  cherished  for  his  darling  child,  —  he  who  alone 
could  have  divided  that  poor  mother's  grief,  and  shared 
with  her  the  burden  that  crushed  her  single  heart,  —  he 
was  watching  through  the  dreary  night  in  his  dismal  room, 
counting  his  own  pulse,  or  noting  the  beatings  of  his  heart, 
and  hoping  against  hope  itself  that  the  dawn  would  find 
his  child  still  alive.  Alas  !  what  a  vain  mockery  are  even 
the  most  meagre  of  our  hopes  !  What  pitfalls  are  dug  for 
us  at  every  step  of  our  way,  that  we  may  finally  learn 
where  to  repose  our  trust,  and  to  whom  to  go  for  help  in 
tunes  of  distress ! 

Mr.  Humphreys  visited  the  poor  woman,  as  soon  as  he 
heard  of  her  double  affliction  the  next  day,  and  imme 
diately  set  measures  on  foot  through  the  village  to  release 
the  father  in  time  for  the  burial  ceremonies  of  his  child. 
Money  enough  was  soon  collected  to  pay  the  amount  of 
the  debt,  together  with  the  costs  of  execution ;  and  straight 
way  the  clergyman  himself  rode  over  to  the  county  town 


186  OUR   PARISH. 

to  communicate  the  unwelcome  news  of  his  child's  death 
to  the  unhappy  father,  and  bring  him  back  with  him. 

It  finally  appeared  that  Mr.  Sanger,  the  village  lawyer, 
had  been  heartless  enough  to  press  the  collection  of  the 
debt  in  such  a  manner  ;  and  it  long  afterwards  came  out, 
too,  that  he  treasured  no  special  good  will  towards  Mr. 
Humphreys  for  interesting  himself,  as  he  expressed  it,  "in 
a  matter  that  didn't  concern  him  in  the  least,  and  went 
only  to  offering  an  insult  to  his  own  feelings." 

As  if  such  a  man's  feelings  were  of  a  nature  to  suffer  at 
any  time  from  an  insult  I 


CHAPTER    XYI. 

ONLY  FAMILY  MATTERS. 

AUTUMN  brought  new  joy  to  the  heart  of  our  young 
minister  and  his  wife,  and  they  thought  their  cup  was 
overflowing.  It  is  impossible  to  conceive  of  persons  more 
thoroughly  and  entirely  happy  than  were  they. 

Mrs.  Humphreys  presented  her  husband  with  twin  chil 
dren  —  both  boys  !  They  were  named  Alfred  and  Arthur. 

The  little  parsonage,  full  of  light  before,  seemed  now 
but  an  illumination.  From  ridge  pole  to  cellar  apartment 
it  was  aglow  with  the  heat  of  the  new  happiness.  The 
mother  was  grateful  as  only  mothers'  hearts  can  be.  Hers 
was  a  feeling  that  compelled  tears,  tears  of  such  thankful 
joy  as  never  before  had  rained  from  her  eyes.  She 
blessed  God  for  his  gift ;  but  how  earnest  was  her  prayer 
for  strength  to  guard  faithfully  her  trust,  that  she  might 
surrender  it  again  with  clean  hands  and  a  clear  con 
science  I 

All  the  ladies  of  the  parish  flocked  in,  as  soon  after  this 
notable  announcement  as  was  proper,  eager  to  lend  both 

(187) 


188  OUR   PARISH. 

assistance  and  sympathy.  They  were  exceedingly  kind,  and 
their  seasonable  offers  added  greatly  to  the  young  mother's 
happiness.  She  could  hardly  thank  them  enough  for  their 
voluntary  services. 

Mr.  Humphreys  received  the  congratulations  of  the  men 
of  the  village  for  days  together.  Indeed,  to  one  who  took 
a  little  pains  to  adjust  his  opinion  nicely,  it  would  seem  as 
if  they  must  be  almost  as  much  rejoiced  at  the  event  as 
himself. 

Ellen  "Walters  —  a  girl  not  above  sixteen  years  of  age  — 
used  to  come  in  almost  every  day  and  sit  with  Mrs.  Hum 
phreys,  reading  aloud  to  her  from  such  books  as  she  pre 
ferred,  and  engaging  her  in  pleasant  conversation.  While 
the  young  mother  was  convalescing,  this  was  a  companion 
ship  especially  acceptable  to  her.  Ellen  was  a  girl  to 
whom  Carrie's  sympathies  had  freely  gone  out  on  the  oc 
casion  of  their  very  first  meeting.  She  was  motherless, 
and  —  Carrie  thought  she  looked  —  almost  friendless* 
Little  enjoyment  did  she  seem  to  take  with  the  other  vil 
lage  girls  of  her  own  age,  withdrawing  rather  into  the 
silent  circle  of  her  own  thoughts,  a^id  there  communing 
with  herself  undisturbed.  It  was  not  a  shade  of  misan- 
throphy ;  farthest  from  that  of  all  other  things.  But  she 
appeared  to  wear  constantly  a  garb  of  sadness,  that  sat  on 
her  like  her  own  robes  of  mourning.  Her  figure  was  very 
slight,  and  her  face  very  pale ;  and  from  her  large  and 
luminous  eyes  beamed  a  light  that  seemed  to  stream  from 
the  very  depths  of  her  soul,  confessing  her  every  thought, 


ONLY  FAMILY  MATTERS.  189 

and  feeling,  and  affection,  and  desire.  There  was  a  dream 
iness,  too,  in  her  look  that  attracted  while  it  half  frightened 
you.  It  was  not  of  earth,  giving  back  the  superficial  radi 
ance  that  danced  into  it  from  the  things  of  this  world,  but  a 
look  that  reached  far  backward  strangely  into  the  past,  and 
led  you  silently,  you  knew  not  how,  far  forward  into  the 
illimitable  future. 

Her  first  affection  for  this  sad-faced  girl  Carrie  had 
steadily  cherished,  until,  at  a  time  like  this,  when  only  the 
closest  human  sympathies  are  really  of  any  worth,  she  took 
her  wholly  into  her  heart,  and  shared  with  her  the  feelings 
the  sex  can  share  with  itself  alone. 

So  that  Ellen  Walters  became  a  daily  visitant  at  the 
parsonage.  Generally  she  remained  there  all  day  —  now 
waiting  on  the  young  mother  with  cheerfulness,  now  talking 
with  her  gently  and  listening  in  turn  to  her  gentle  talk, 
and  now  reading  from  favorite  books  aloud,  books  of 
Christian  writers,  poems  and  essays.  These  were  profita 
ble  days  for  both  of  them.  Under  their  influence  Carrie 
improved  sensibly.  Mr.  Humphreys  could  remain  peacea 
bly  at  his  labors  in  the  study,  knowing  that  she  whom  he 
loved  was  in  such  tender  hands.  All  things  progressed 
finely,  the  health  of  Carrie  being  not  the  least  among 
them. 

During  one  of  their  conversations,  Ellen,  after  looking 
thoughtfully  into  the  little  blaze  for  some  minutes,  pres 
ently  spoke  of  the  fear  most  people  had  of  dying;  for 
herself,  she  said,  she  had  no  fear.  It  was  rather  a 


190  OUR   PARISH. 

pleasant  thought,  bringing  up  to  her  heart  the  realization 
of  all  the  endeared  wishes  it  had  reached  forward  to  from 
its  earliest  days. 

"  Do  you  feel  quite  ready  to  go  whenever  you  may  be 
called  ? "  asked  Carrie,  falling  at  once  into  the  subject  on 
which  she  was  glad  to  talk  with  her. 

"  Perhaps  I  may  not  have  true  faith"  returned  the  child 
—  for  merely  a  child  she  was  in  innocency  as  well  as  years. 
"  Sometimes  I  think  I  am  too  impatient ;  I  do  not  quietly 
wait  on  the  Lord's  will;  but  I  pray  to  be  rid  of  such 
feelings.  I  desire  only  to  be  in  my  own  good  Father's 
hands." 

"  That  is  what  you  certainly  ought  to  desire,  Ellen.  If 
your  heart  strains  after  any  thing  else,  or  grows  impatient 
in  the  least  degree  under  the  restraints  God  sees  proper  to 
impose,  be  sure  your  faith  is  not  the  true  faith.  That 
begets  nothing  but  humility  and  trust.  If  you  have  that, 
you  will  be  happy  under  any  trials  that  may  rise  in  your 
path.  You  will  not  only  bear  them,  but  you  will  bear  them 
gladly,  knowing  how  willing  your  Savior  was  to  bear  his 
great  burden  for  you  ;  you  will  rejoice  in  them,  not  with  a 
vain  and  empty  rejoicing,  but  because  you  will  feel  that 
your  example  under  them  is  working  out  the  salvation  of 
other  souls  that  are  groaning  with  lesser  loads  than  yours. 
Think  of  this  often,  dear  Ellen." 

The  girl  became  thoughtful  and  silent  again. 

"  You  say  you  are  not  afraid  to  die " 

"  I  think  I  am  not,"  mildly  interposed  she. 


ONLY  FAMILY  MATTERS.  191 

"  But  are  you  quite  ready  to  die  ?  I  mean,  do  you  feel 
that  you  have  done  all  there  is  to  be  done  by  you  in  win 
ning  other  hearts  to  Christ  ?  Can  you  truly  say  that  the 
whole  of  your  influence  is  s£ent?  Is  there  not  another 
wish  you  can  realize  here  respecting  the  spread  of  God's 
kingdom  and  the  knowledge  of  his  grace  ?  Do  you  feel, 
and  can  you  say  that  you  feel,  as  if  all  you  had  been  sent 
here  to  do  is  already  done,  and  done  faithfully,  without  a 
mistake  or  an  omission,  with  nothing  left  that  you  would 
have  had  performed  ?  Can  you,  from  your  heart,  say  this, 
dear  Ellen?" 

The  girl  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  wept. 

Carrie  left  her  to  indulge  in  her  grief  for  a  few  moments, 
and  then  asked,  — 

«  Why  are  these  tears,  Ellen  ?  What  do  they  mean  ? 
Open  your  heart  to  me,  and  let  me  share  your  sympathies 
freely." 

"  0, 1  am  50  bad ! "  sobbed  the  stricken  girl.  « I  feel  so 
wicked.  I  know  I  do  wrong  all  the  time.  It  makes  me 
feel  so  terribly  unhappy." 

"  But  what  makes  you  have  this  impression  ?  You  will 
not  do  wrong  purposely,  at  least,  if  you  strive  to  imitate 
Christ  in  every  thing.  Do  you  study  his  dear  example  as 
you  ought  ?  " 

"  No  —  no  —  no.  But  I  am  so  wicked.  I  know  I  am 
so  wicked.  No  one  talks  to  me  about  it  as  you  do,  and  I 
feel  sometimes  as  if  I  were  a  great  deal  better  than  those 


192  OUR   PARISH. 

around  me.  But  I  don't  feel  so  when  you  talk  to  me.  It 
makes  me  so  debased  in  my  own  eyes  to  hear  you  speak 
of  goodness  and  of  God ;  and  then  I  sometimes  think  I 
never  can  be  accepted.  0,  what  would  I  give  to  be  as  you 
are,  Mrs.  Humphreys !  Can  I  ever  be  ?  " 

"  And  what  am  I  ?  Nothing  more  than  the  same  poor 
sinner  you  are  yourself — nothing  better  than  the  very 
worst  of  all  sinners.  I  must  go  where  the  basest  must  go, 
if  I  hope  to  obtain  pardon  and  peace  —  at  the  foot  of  the 
cross.  I  must  humble  myself  continually,  and  bruise  my 
heart,  and  break  my  pride.  Nothing  can  avail  me  but 
complete  and  unconditional  submission.  If  I  come  short 
of  that,  Christ  will  not  own  me  as  his.  He  will  have  only 
the  whole  of  our  hearts.  He  seeks  not  a  corner,  where  he 
may  hide  himself  from  the  world's  opposition.  He  de 
mands  the  whole,  where  he  may  crush  all  worldly  opposi 
tion,  and  reign.  Now,  can  you  not  give  him  the  whole  of 
your  heart,  dear  Ellen  ?  Is  there  any  thing  this  earth  can 
offer  you  worth  a  moment's  comparison  with  his  boundless 
and  exhaustless  love  ?  Is  there  any  safety  so  perfect  as 
that  which  he  offers  you  freely  in  his  arms  ?  Ellen,  why 
will  you  not  give  all  up  to  him  ?  See  how  patiently  he 
waits  on  you.  See  how  lovingly  he  intercedes  for  you, 
that  you  may  at  last  be  wholly  acceptable.  Can  you  point 
any  where  to  love  so  priceless,  so  undying,  as  this  ?  " 

Ellen  laid  her  face  against  the  bed,  near  which  she  had 
drawn  her  low  chair,  and  wept  sobbingly.  Her  heart,  gen- 


ONLY  FAMILY  MATTERS.  198 

tie  and  docile  as  it  seemed  to  others,  was  yet  flinty.  The 
purifying  waters  had  never  yet  gushed  out  of  it.  It  had 
never  been  smitten  with  the  real  power  of  truth,  that  the 
stream  migh^find  its  way  to  the  surface.  But  now  the 
sealed  fountffli  seemed  opened.  Those  hot  tears,  gushing 
BO  profusely  from  her  eyes,  —  they  betrayed  sufficiently 
the  disturbed  spirit  within,  that  would  never  find  rest  again 
save  in  the  arms  of  its  Savior. 

Carrie  suffered  her  to  remain  in  the  position  she  had 
taken  without  disturbing  her.  And  thus  she  continued 
for  quite  half  an  hour.  Presently  she  asked  the  weep 
ing  girl  if  she  did  not  now  feel  that  she  could  make  the 
offering  that  was  demanded  of  her  without  a  murmur  of 
complaint. 

No  answer  yet.  And  silence  was  in  the  chamber  again, 
save  when  broken  by  the  irregular  sobs  of  the  sorrowing 
girl. 

•  Mr.  Humphreys  came  quietly  into  the  room  while  this 
was  going  on,  and  stopped  short  for  an  explanation  of  it 
all.  +  Carrie  at  once  narrated  to  him  what  had  passed,  and 
begged  him  to  try  and  comfort  her  stricken  heart  by 
directing  it  where  comfort  could  only  be  obtained. 

Immediately  he  took  her  gently  by  the  hand,  and  led 
her  unresistingly  to  the  foot  of  the  bed.  There  he  knelt 
down  beside  her,  her  face  buried  in  her  hands,  and  offered 
a  prayer.  It  was  such  a  prayer  as  could  come  only  from 
a  true  believer's  heart  and  lips.  It  carried  all  the  poor 
13 


194  OUR   PARISH. 

child's  wants  to  the  feet  of  Jesus,  and  there  besought 
aid  in  this  moment  of  urgent  need.  O,  how  cooling 
did  it  seem  to  the  feverish  heart  of  Ellen !  How  grate 
fully  refreshing  did  its  words  fall  on  the^parched  soil 
of  her  feelings,  as  the  seasonable  rains  dro^Rn  the  dried 
bosom  of  the  earth !  What  a  new  light  seemed  dawning 
on  her  soul,  as  if  the  morning  of  her  true  life  had  just 
risen  !  What  gratitude,  what  wonder,  what  praise,  what 
deep  and  unutterable  joy  successively  rose  from  her 
heart,  as  from  an  altar  breathing  incense  and  sweetest 
perfumes ! 

He  afterwards  talked  with  her,  gently  yet  earnestly. 
All  the  mercies  of  her  Savior,  all  his  voluntary  gifts  and 
sacrifices,  all  "his  free  offers  and  invitations  were  sever 
ally  rehearsed  to  her ;  and  then  came  up  the  single  in 
quiry,  —  it  could  not  be  delayed,  it  must  have  an  answer, 
—  "  Can  you  give  up  all  —  all  —  to  Christ  ?  He  will 
take  nothing  except  unconditionally  and  freely.  He  will 
possess  no  part  unless  he  can  have  the  whole." 

Yes  —  yes  —  yes.  The  answer  was  made.  The  heart 
was  given  —  O,  how  freely  and  entirely  ! 

That  night  there  was  greater  cause  for  happiness  than 
ever  in  the  dear  little  parsonage.  A  soul  had  been  won 
to  God.  Heaven  had  opened  to  let  in  another  spirit  into 
the  fold. 

As  Ellen  laid  her  head  on  her  pillow,  —  the  pillow 
that  morning  saw  wet  with  tears,  —  she  felt  that  she 


ONLY  FAMILY  MATTERS.  195 

would  live —  live  to  do  the  work  she  now  saw  it  wag 
hers  to  do ;  live  to  work  with  her  example,  under  God, 
wherever  its  little  light  might  be  set. 

What  a  different  frame  was  that  in  which  her  mind 
now  viewed  every  object  connected  with  life!  What  a 
field  opened  now  before  her  eyes,  where  hitherto  she 
had  seen  nothing  for  her  feeble  hands  to  do  I 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

A   COUNTRY  WEDDING. 

1  SHALL  make  no  special  effort,  in  the  course  of  these 
annals,  to  observe  very  nicely  the  rules  of  synchronism, 
well  aware  that  their  general  interest  can  in  this  way  be 
nowise  impaired.  I  am  endeavoring,  kind  reader,  to 
sketch  for  you  such  salient  points,  in  the  experience  of 
the  new  minister  in  our  parish,  as  will  give  some  sufficient 
idea  of  the  lives  of  all  of  us  together,  and  of  the  endeared 
relation  that  for  so  many  years  subsisted  between  our 
pastor  and  our  people.  A  narrative  of  natural  sequence 
would  hardly  have  answered  this  end  as  effectively  as  the 
picking  out  single  events,  scattered  here  and  there  over 
our  mutual  experiences,  and  binding  them  together  in  the 
little  sheaf  I  have  herewith  presented. 

The  twins  got  on  finely.  As  the  winter  came  and 
went,  and  the  new  spring  opened,  all  their  little  infantile 
traits  budded  and  expanded  in  the  genial  atmosphere  of 
home.  The  parents  lived,  it  seemed,  double  lives  in  their 
very  existence. 

(196) 


A  COUNTRY  WEDDING.  197 

In  the  early  part  of  the  spring,  when  no  one  but  Miss 
Buss  happened  to  be  there  at  the  parsonage,  playing  with 
the  babies,  a  quite  unique-looking  establishment  was  driven 
up  before  the  door,  and  two  as  picturesque-looking  indi 
viduals  alighted. 

"  Now,  I  wonder  who  all  that  is,"  exclaimed  Miss  Buss, 
laying  down  the  baby  she  held  -rather  suddenly,  and  hur 
rying  to  the  window.  "  They  travel  'most  as  independent 
as  /  do  sometimes." 

Mrs.  Humphreys  could  not  repress  a  smile  herself. 

"  Strangers  this  way,  I  guess,"  added  Miss  Buss.  "  But, 
dear  me,  I  wonder  if  they  don't  know  who  lives  here. 
Jest  see  'em  stare  about.  I  sh'd  think  they'd  jest  come 
all  the  way  from  Joppy.  Did  ever  you  look  at  such  a 
jair,  Miss  Humphreys  ?  " 

They  had  hitched  their  horse  to  a  tree,  and  walked  very 
self-poss^sedly  up  the  front  path.  The  man  was  busying 
himself  with  wearing  the  skin  off  his  knuckles  against 
the  door. 

"  Don't  he  know,  now,  there's  a  knocker  on  that  door  ?  " 
broke  out  Miss  Buss  again.  "A  body'd  think,  sure 
enough,  that  them  great  eyes  of  his  wasn't  any  thing  but 
peeled  onions ;  and  I  believe  I  could  stick  onions  in  a 
man's  face  a  good  deal  handsomer  than  his  are  done,  too." 

Mrs.  Humphreys  tried  pleasantly  to  check  her ;  but  it 
was  to  little  purpose.  She  had  found  just  such  specimens 
of  attire,  just  such  manners,  physiognomies,  and  general 
peculiarities  as  served  to  excite  her  agreeably.  She  would 
follow  up  her  enjoyment  as  long  as  it  lasted  her. 


198  OUR  PAEISH. 

Mrs.  Humphreys  went  to  the  door. 

The  man  made  a  bow,  and  paused  to  stare  at  her  with  a 
pair  of  very  gray  eyes. 

She  felt  obliged  herself  to  speak  first.  The  man  seemed 
too  much  lost  in  wonder  to  begin,  though  his  travelling 
companion  was  perseveringly  jogging  his  elbow  with  con 
siderable  emphasis,  scowling  formidably  at  him,  and  mov 
ing  her  lips  in  low  and  inaudible  ejaculations. 

"  Do  you  wish  to  see  Mr.  Humphreys  ?  "  mildly  inquired 
Carrie,  looking  from  one  face  to  the  other. 

"Don't  the  minister  live  here?"  stammered  forth  the 
man,  and  feeling  apparently  relieved  that  the  ice  was  finally 
broken. 

"  Yes,"  answered  she. 

"  I  thought  so,"  he  returned. 

"  Then,  Jacob, — then  why  don't  ye " 

His  female  companion  could  get  no  farther  for  %e  stam 
mering  tongue  that  tripped  her  speech  to  the  ground. 

"  Yes,  yes"  said  he,  shaking  her  away  rather  impatiently 
from  his  elbow.  "Yes,  I'm  grin9  to.  Wai,"  he  began 
again  with  Mrs.  Humphreys,  "  we'd  like  pretty  well  to  see 
him." 

"  Certainly,"  replied  she ;  and  ran  quickly  up  the  stairs 
to  call  him  at  his  study  door. 

In  the  mean  time,  seeing  the  door  of  the  sitting  room 
wide  open,  just  as  Carrie  in  her  haste  had  left  it,  our 
friends  took  a  new  start,  and  walked  deliberately  in. 

There  sat  Miss  Buss  j  but,  from  her  countenance,  she 


A    COUNTRY    WEDDING.  199 

would  be  received  as  any  body  else  quite  as  quick.  Her 
face  turned  a  ruddy  red,  more  brilliant  than  the  leaves  of 
the  oak  in  the  frosts  of  autumn.  She  pierced  the  strangers 
through  and  through  with  her  keen  eyes, — the  lady  espe 
cially,  —  surveying  their  garments  and  general  proportions 
from  head  to  foot. 

The  man  took  off  his  bell-crowned  hat,  holding  it  by  the 
rim  on  the  tips  of  the  fingers  of  each  hand,  while  he  kept 
it  swinging  much  like  the  ringing  of  the  article  after  which 
the  shape  of  its  crown  was  named,  staring  quite  curiously 
about  over  the  walls  and  the  furniture.  He  stood ;  but  his 
companion  did  not  feel  the  same  necessity  incumbent  on 
herself ;  so  she  dropped  quietly  down  into  the  first  chair 
that  offered. 

The  babies  were  lying  on  a  little  rocker  crib  that  stood 
in  the  room,  both  awake,  and  actively  kicking,  and  "  goo- 
gling  "  at  their  chubby  mouths. 

"  /  d'clare  ! "  exclaimed  he,  as  soon  as  they  came  within 
the  range  of  his  acute  observation.  "What  be  they?  twins  ?  " 

Miss  Buss  assured  him  he  wasn't  at  all  out  of  the  way  in 
his  conjecture. 

« /  d'clare ! "  said  he.  "  Who'd  ha'  thought  it  ?  Lucy, 
jest  look  at  'em." 

She  who  was  thus  appealed  to  half  rose  from  her  chair, 
stretched  out  her  neck  far  enough  to  take  a  peep  over  the 
edge  of  the  crib,  and  sat  down  instantly  again.  Apparently, 
she  thought  she  had  no  time  to  throw  away  on  sights  of 
any  description. 


200  OUR   PARISH. 

"  Pretty ! "  exclaimed  she,  in  a  very  small  voice. 

He  looked  down  approvingly  into  her  face,  and  bestowed 
on  her  one  of  the  most  meaningless  smiles  it  is  possible  to 
conceive  of. 

At  this  moment  Mrs.  Humphreys  came  down  stairs. 
Not  seeing  her  visitors  at  first  in  the  outside  door  where 
she  had  left  them,  and  they  having  concealed  themselves 
from  her  eyes  by  the  intervention  of  the  opened  sitting- 
room  door,  she  unwittingly  exclaimed,  as  if  a  little  per 
plexed,  — 

"  Why,  they  have  gone  ! " 

The  man  succeeded  in  catching  her  words.  Immediately 
he  stepped  forward,  and  called  out  to  Mrs.  Humphreys  in 
the  entry, — 

«  No ;  here  we  be." 

Carrie's  face  colored  as  she  again  accosted  the  alert 
stranger,  and  she  could  hardly  keep  back  the  smile  that 
would  persist  in  playing  about  her  lips.  As  she  shut  the 
door  and  entered  the  room,  she  apprised  them  that  Mr. 
Humphreys  was  not  at  home  :  he  had  gone  out  for  a  walk. 

"  How  unfort'nate  ! "  said  the  man,  looking  into  his  pa 
tient  companion's  countenance,  while  he  gave  his  hat  an 
other  jerk  that  almost  swung  it  clear  from  his  hands.  He 
evidently  had  the  science  of  bell  ringing  in  his  mind  as  he 
persistently  performed  these  several  gyrations  with  his  tile. 

"  What  sh'll  we  do  ?  "  he  asked  her. 

"  Won't  you  take  a  seat,  and  wait  until  Mr.  Humphreys 
comes  ?  "  asked  Carrie. 


A   COUNTRY   WEDDING.  201 

«  Wai,  I  do'  know.     I  don't  well  see  how  I  can." 

Miss  Buss  was  very  curious  to  understand  why  he  couldn't 
take  a  seat  as  well  as  his  partner  in  the  business. 

"  We're  in  sunthin'  of  a  hurry,  you  see,"  he  remarked, 
looking  at  a  chair  he  was  about  taking. 

"Yes,  we  air,"  acquiesced  the  woman. 

"  We've  got  ten  miles  to  ride,"  said  he ;  "  and  our  ole 
horse  ain't  none  of  the  smartest,  jest  now.  He  hasn't  been 
out  o'  the  plough  long  enough  yit  to  pick  up  his  nat'ral 
trav'lin'  powers  much.  However,  I  guess  we'll  wait  a  little 
while  ;  I  don't  see  exackly  what  we  can  do  any  better." 

"I  hope  'twon't  be  very  longV  exclaimed  his  com 
panion. 

He  finally  sat  down. 

"  You  see,"  said  he,  half  winking  at  his  travelling  part* 
ner,  while  he  addressed  himself  to  Mrs.  Humphreys, 
"we're  talkin'  o'  gettin'  married!"  —  and  he  wound  up 
the  confession  by  giving  his  intended  a  full  and  frank  look 
straight  in  her  face. 

"  You  s'pose  the  horse'll  stand,  don't  you  ?  "  she  inquired, 
trying  to  change  the  topic  a  trifle. 

"  Stan* !  I  guess  he  won't  go  !  —  not  unless  that  air  tree 
out  there  goes  with  him  ! " 

Miss  Buss  seemed  really  delighted  to  think  that  she 
had  happened  over  at  the  parsonage  at  so  interesting  a 
time  as  this.  Not  for  a  moment  did  she  take  her  eyes  off 
of  them,  but  studied  every  one  of  their  peculiar  and  some 
what  original  characteristics  with  quite  all  the  earnest  ap- 


202  OUR  PAEISH. 

plication  of  a  portrait  painter.  Miss  Buss,  for  once  at 
least,  had  her  hands  full. 

"  It's  expensive  business,  sometimes,  gettin'  married,"  he 
premised,  for  the  information  of  all  present. 

"  Jacob ! "  whispered  the  woman,  as  if  the  others  could 
not  hear. 

"  What  do  you  s'pose  I  may  have  to  pay,  now  ?  "  he  went 
on ;  "  if  your  man  goes  to  puttin'  it  too  high,  I  shall  have 
to  give  it  up  entirely,  and  take  Lucy  back  home  again  ! " 

"  There's  justices  enough  to  do  it,  ain't  there  ?  "  inquired 
she  of  him. 

"  O,  certain  ;  certain  there  is  ;  but  justices,  you  see,  ain't 
jest  the  thing !  It  wants  a  real  minister  to  do  it  as  it  orter 
be  done.  Didn't  your  old  friend  Margaret  Muck  git  mar 
ried  that  way?  And  how  long,  I  want  to  know,  did  the 
knot  stay  tied  ?  Not  six  months  !  No,  Lucy  ;  I  say  if 't 
does  cost  more,  I'm  for  havin'  it  done  as  it  should  be, 
so  't'll  stay  /  Then  we  can  go  about  our  business  agin,  and 
not  all  the  time  be  worryin'  about  the  knot's  gittuV  ontied. 
This  only  half  doin'  a  thing  —  even  gittin'  married,  now 

—  ain't,  in  my  opinion,  the  thing  at  all.     S'pose  it  does  cost 
more  ;  you'll  find  it  the  cheapest  in  the  end  !    Yes  —  yes  1 " 

—  and  he  went  to  swinging  his  bell  crown  busily  between 
his  knees  again. 

"  Mabbe  so,"  answered  his  intended. 
"  You  are  not  obliged  to  give  the  clergyman  that  marries 
t  you  more  than  you  feel  able  to  give,"   remarked  Mrs 
Humphreys. 


A   COUNTRY   WEDDING.  203 

"  There,  now !  "  exclaimed  the  woman.  "  What  did  I 
tell  you,  Jacob  ?  " 

Her  face  brightened  like  the  rising  of  the  moon. 

"  Is  that  so  ?  "  asked  he,  thoroughly  surprised  at  the  very 
agreeable  nature  of  the  intelligence. 

"  Certainly,"  answered  Mrs.  Humphreys. 

Miss  Buss  laughed ;  it  was  more  than  she  could  do  to 
help  it. 

"  P'raps  you  ain't  married  yit  ?  "  suggested  the  man. 

Miss  Buss  only  colored ;  but  she  could  not  have  spoken 
a  plainer  answer. 

"  Wai,  now,"  said  he,  "  when  you  and  your  man  come 
to  talk  the  matter  over,  p'raps  this  item  of  the  price  '11 
somehow  git  into  your  account." 

"  Mabbe  so,"  chimed  in  she  whom  he  called  his  Lucy. 

"  Now,  if  it  does,  jest  think  of  it  as  we  think  of  it  — 
that  'taint  such  a  very  larfin'  matter.  It  ain't,  depend 
on't!" 

Miss  Buss  was  cured  of  her  laughing,  certainly ;  yet  her 
sense  of  mirth  was  in  a  state  of  continual  titillation.  She 
seemed  to  relish  the  unexpected  scene  highly. 

"  I  wish  he'd  come ! "  said  the  woman,  at  length,  in  a 
low  voice. 

"  So  do  I,  Lucy.  But  wishin'  won't  fetch  him.  Miss  — 
Miss  —  really,  I  can't  speak  your  name,"  said  he,  address 
ing  the  clergyman's  wife. 

"  Mrs.  Humphreys,"  she  assisted  him. 

"  Wai,  Miss  Humphreys,  if  you'll  jest  tell  me  where 


204  OtJB  PARISH. 

you  think  he's  gone,  I'll  go  and  hunt  him  up.  It's  no  use 
a-waitin'  in  this  way.  It's  losin'  precious  tune,  jest  like 
losin'  shinin'  dollars." 

"  I  could  not  tell  you  where  he  has  gone,"  said  Carrie, 
rising  and  going  to  the  window  to  look  out  on  the  street. 
"  But  I  should  think  he  would  come  back  pretty  soon." 

"  Mabbe  so,"  said  the  intended  bride. 

Miss  Buss  smiled  veryjbroadly  again,  her  face  turning 
redder  than  ever. 

The  door  from  the  back  room  suddenly  opened,  and  un 
ravelled  the  edjfcglement  of  their  perplexities  at  once. 
Mr.  Humphreys  himself  stood  before  them. 

"  Here  he  is  ! "  exclaimed  Carrie,  glad  to  know  they 
were  now  to  be  relieved  of  their  trouble. 

The  clergyman  stood  a  moment  and  looked  round  the 
room.  The  sight  rather  staggered  him.  He  was  quite 
sure  that  neither  of  those  countenances  was  a  familiar  one 
to  him.  He  looked  at  his  wife  for  an  explanation. 

"These  persons  wish  you  to  marry  them,"  she  ex 
plained. 

"  Ah ! "  was  his  exclamation  ;  and  in  a  moment  every 
thing  became  properly  adjusted  in  his  mind. 

"  We've  come  to  git  married,"  said  the  groom,  half  ris 
ing  from  his  chair,  while  he  pushed  his  feet  far  forward, 
as  if  for  a  fair  start  in  a  race  not  yet  announced. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Mr.  Humphreys ;  and  immediately 
he  set  about  satisfying  himself  that  they  were  legal  can 
didates  for  that  ceremony.  It  appearing  that  all  the  pre- 


A   COUNTRY   WEDDING.  205 

liminaries  had  been  regular  and  proper,  he  made  known 
his  readiness  to  proceed  with  the  rite  by  requesting  them 
to  stand  up.  The  man  not  only  complied,  on  his  part,  but 
he  held  up  his  right  hand  beside. 

"  No  need  of  that/'  whispered  .Mr.  Humphreys,  smiling. 
And  then  he  asked  the  bridegroom  to  stand  a  little  nearer 
his  prospective  bride.  He  had  got  off  where  he  could  gaze 
exactly  in  her  face  ! 

After  offering  such  counsel  as  clergymen  usually  give  to 
those  who  present  themselves  for  matrimony,  and  such  as 
he  conjectured  might  be  serviceable  in  the  particular  cases 
of  the  couple  before  him,  he  proceeded  to  consummate  the 
union ;  which  was  done  in  a  very  brief  time,  even  the 
bridegroom  himself  not  knowing  whefi  he  had  got  through. 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  asked  the  astonished  man. 

"  Certain,"  answered  his  now  inspirited  bride,  looking 
round  on  the  others  and  laughing. 

Mrs.  Humphreys  brought  in  a  plate  of  plain  cake,  mak 
ing  an  excuse  for  its  not  being  more  worthy  of  the  wedding 
guests.  Her  husband  handed  it  to  them,  urging  them  to 
partake. 

The  man  held  off  a  moment.  He  had  a  new  thought  in 
his  hpad.  "  P'raps  'twould  bring  the  cost  of  the  marriage 
higher!" 

"  O,  no ;  you  are  perfectly  welcome  to  it.  It  is  the 
custom,  too,  for  the  clergyman's  wife  to  furnish  these  little 
things  at  such  times ;  and  she  gets  the  fee  for  her  pay." 

"  0  that's  it,  is  it  ? "  exclaimed  the  bridegroom,  helping 


206  OUR  PARISH. 

himself  to  a  generous  slice,  and  urging  his  better  half  not 
to  be  at  all  backward  now ;  "  'twon't  cost  any  more,  you 
know,"  he  added. 

As  they  rose  to  go,  Mr.  Humphreys  followed  them  to  the 
door  to  see  them  off.  While  standing  in  the  entry,  the 
bridegroom  slipped  a  paper  into  the  clergyman's  hand, 
saying,  as  he  did  so,  "That  makes  us  even,  I  b'lieve!" 
Mr.  Humphreys  bowed  them  out  to  the  gate,  and  returned 
to  his  wife  and  Miss  Buss. 

"  Here  is  your  part  of  it,  Carrie,"  said  he,  placing  the 
paper  in  her  hand. 

She  unfolded  it,  —  which,  in  fact,  was  not  a  little  labor,  — 
and  there  lay  nestled  down  at  the  bottom  of  the  wrapper 
—  a  bright  half  dollar !  Mr.  Humphreys  could  not  re 
frain  from  the  pleasant  merriment  that  moved  him. 

"  And  that's  what  folks  call  gettin'  married,  is  it  ?  "  said 
Miss  Buss.  "  Well,  I  don't  think  it's  such  a  very  awful 
thing,  after  all ! " 

No,  Miss  Buss ;  you  are  not  alone  in  the  world  in  your 
candid  and  striking  opinion. 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

TWO  IN   HEAVEN. 

ROSES  without  thorns,  —  who  has  ever  found  them  ? 

What  is  life  but  an  alternation  of  sunshine  and  cloud, 
light  and  darkness  ? 

What  would  give  strength  to  our  sympathies,  quickness 
to  our  compassion,  or  healthy  life  to  our  natures,  did  not 
troubles  obtrude  their  terrible  forms  now  and  then  between 
our  vision  and  the  sun,  or  gloomy  mists  brood  over  our 
heads  in  the  valleys  of  affliction^ 

The  days,  and  weeks,  and  months  went  on. 

Ingleside  was  a  little  earthly  paradise.  Life  went 
pleasantly  there,  for  the  great  ends  of  life  were  fully  an 
swered.  The  inmates  were  at  work  in  their  Master's  vine 
yard  faithfully  ;  and  labor  brings  its  own  abundant  reward, 
especially  labor  in  Christ's  own  cause. 

The  heads  and  the  hearts  there  were  always  active.  As 
time  slipped  away,  the  duties  became  more  extended  and 
complicated.  New  sets  of  personal  and  parish  interests 

(207) 


208  OUR  PARISH. 

arose.  The  people  needed  now  what,  a  little  time  before, 
was  no  want  with  them.  Other  modifications  or  expan 
sions  of  feeling  were  visible,  for  which  constant  and  ready 
provision  must  be  made  by  the  faithful  pastor.  Interest 
in  religious  matters  increased,  yet  not  so  much  as  to  ex 
ercise  a  controlling  influence  among  the  people. 

The  young  clergyman  wrought  perseveringly  and  with 
deep  faith  at  all  his  duties,  praying  that  God  would  finally 
give  the  increase.  He  passed  much  of  the  time  in  his 
study,  although  he  meant  to  rob  neither  his  family  nor  his 
parish  of  what  rightfully  belonged  to  them.  In  season 
and  out  of  season  Mr.  Humphreys  was  at  his  post  of  duty. 
No  one  afforded  him  greater  assistance  in  his  labors  than 
good  Deacon  Burroughs,  though  the  deacon's  wife  had 
rather  steadily  persisted  lately  in  showing  coldness  in  her 
manner  towards  the  inmates  at  Ingleside.  Deacon  Congdon 
was  a  good  man,  too ;  but  his  cooperation  was  not  of  ex 
actly  that  sort  offered  by  his  friend  Deacon  Burroughs. 
The  latter  made  his  influence  vital,  because  it  was  emi 
nently  personal.  Every  thing  he  took  hold  of  had  a  way 
of  prospering.  His  soul  was  in  his  work ;  and  it  was  a 
work  he  never  looked  forward  to  the  end  of.  All  he 
desired  was  to  be  accounted  faithful,  and  faithful  to  the 
last  moment  of  life. 

Ellen  Walters  was  as  constant  a  visitor  at  Ingleside  as 
she  ever  had  been,  taking  unwonted  interest  in  the  beau 
tiful  children,  and  tending  them  with  the  most  loving  care. 
She  petted  them  almost  as  much  as  a  mother.  Pale  as 


TWO   IN   HEAVEN.  209 

her  young  face  was,  and  waning  as  she  could  not  fail  to  know 
her  strength  to  be,  she  yet  insisted  on  carrying  about  the 
growing  boys  in  her  arms,  one  taking  his  turn  after  the 
other.  Or  she  steadied  their  little  steps  with  all  a  mother's 
gentle  and  affectionate  watchfulness,  when  they  first  be 
trayed  symptoms  of  a  tendency  to  walking,  holding  on  by 
the  chairs,  and  essaying  a  few  feet  across  a  figure  of  the 
soft  carpet.  Few  could  have  confessed  more  love  for 
children  than  did  she  for  these.  Her  nature  itself  seemed 
more  like  a  child's  than  that  of  a  mature  person.  There 
was  so  much  gentleness  in  her  manner,  and  such  innocence 
in  her  look,  and  so  much  guilelessness  in  her  speech. 
Never  was  there  so  much  as  a  flush  of  hasty  feeling  on 
her  cheek.  Never  were  her  thoughtful  eyes  seen  to  light 
with  anger.  She  was  altogether  kind,  and  loving,  and 
simple  souled.  Like  a  meek  and  humble  saint,  her  sincere 
faith  seemed  to  have  folded  its  hands  in  quiet  submission 
to  the  will  of  her  heavenly  Father.  And  for  other  things 
than  her  affection  for  the  children  alone  was  she  deeply 
beloved  at  the  little  parsonage. 

But  dark  days  come.  There  is  no  putting  them  off 
always.  I  The  curtain  must  at  some  time  be  let  down, 
bringing  gloom  between  our  own  eyes  and  the  eyes  of 
those  we  love.: 

And  the  dark  days  were  over  Ingleside.  The  clouds 
were  fast  blotting  out  the  sun.  The  gloom  was  entering  in 
at  the  windows. 

Early  spring  it  was  again,  and  the  dampness  of  the 
14 


210  OUR   PARISH. 

season  had  effected  its  destroying  inroad  in  more  family 
circles  than  one.  The  parsonage  was  not  passed  by. 

Ellen  had  been  at  play  with  the  children  nearly  the 
•whole  of  one  day,  till  she  had,  in  truth,  well  nigh  tired 
herself  out.  Late  in  the  afternoon  she  had  carried  them 
out  into  the  yard,  to  amuse  them  with  looking  at  the  trees 
and  the  budding  shrubbery.  Little  did  she,  at  the  time, 
think  that  she  was  greatly  hazarding  their  precious  lives 
and  her  own.  Little  could  she  have  foreseen  the  wretch 
edness  that  would  result  from  her  momentary  want  of 
thought. 

That  very  night  they  were  seized  —  both  children  — 
with  a  most  violent  cold.  Their  parents  became  imme 
diately  anxious  for  them,  nursing  them  during  the  entire 
night. 

The  next  day  the  matter  was  no  better.  The  colds 
seemed  to  have  increased,  fastening  themselves  upon  the 
innocent  victims  with  a  gripe  that  was  unwilling  to  loose 
itself.  Though  the  case  was  the  cause  of  much  anxiety, 
still  they  thought  it  was  nothing  more  than  what  their  own 
care  and  watchfulness  could  master.  Ellen  was  every 
hour  near  them,  suffering  acutely  from  her  accusing 
thoughts. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  of  that  day  Dr.  Jennings  was 
asked  to  step  in.  He  did  so,  and  pronounced  it  as  his 
opinion  that  the  distemper  might  easily  be  broken  up  in  a 
night ;  and  he  expressed  the  hope  that  he  would  find  them 
bright  and  active  when  he  should  call  again  in  the  morning. 


TWO   IN   HEAVEN.  211 

Their  eyes  were  dull  and  swollen.  There  was  no  joyous 
or  vivacious  expression  in  their  infant  faces.  The  smiles 
were  all  strangled  by  the  griping  hand  of  temporary 
suffering. 

The  evening  lamp  was  shaded  tp  their  vision,  in  the 
little  nursery,  making  the  room  look  sad  and  sombre ;  and 
to  this  look  the  expressions  of  the  countenances  there  great 
ly  added.  Father  and  mother  seemed  oppressed  indeed. 
They  were  not,  to  appearances,  very  deeply  alarmed ;  yet 
they  were  sorely  anxious.  It  was  not  deemed  necessary 
to  call  in  the  services  of  watchers,  as  they  felt  themselves 
abundantly  able  to  minister  to  all  their  little  wants  them 
selves. 

Late  in  the  evening  it  was  when  Mr.  Humphreys  went 
home  with  poor  Ellen  —  she  insisting  on  sitting  up  with 
the  children  through  the  night,  but  they  utterly  refusing  to 
hear  to  any  thing  of  the  kind.  She  went  out  through  the 
door  with  tears  streaming  from  her  eyes. 

"  Do  you  think  they  will  be  better  by  morning  ? "  she 
asked  in  a  whisper  of  Mrs.  Humphreys. 

"  0,  dear  Ellen,"  said  she,  folding  her  affectionately  to 
her  breast,  "  I  hope  so.  Do  not  be  so  anxious.  Try  and 
get  calm  again.  God  will  never  put  upon  us  more  than 
we  are  able  to  bear." 

Ellen  went  away  —  but  O,  how  sadly  ! 

She  sought  her  chamber,  and  knelt  down  to  ask  forgire- 
ness  for  the  great  wrong  she  felt  she  had  done.  Her 
pillow  was  wet  with  tears  when  she  fell  asleep ;  and  even 


212  OUR   PARISH. 

after  that,  her  sobs  could  be  heard,  at  short  intervals,  for 
some  time,  over  the  room. 

They  retired  late  at  the  parsonage,  leaving  the  nursery 
lamp  burning,  as  usual,  in  the  corner.  It  was  their  anxious 
hope  that  the  prescriptions  of  kind  and  skilful  Dr.  Jennings 
might  be  effective  in  throwing  off  the  severe  pressure  on 
their  lungs,  and  speedily  restore  their  delicate  systems  to 
comfort  and  health  again. 

It  was  only  after  long  watchfulness  that  sleep  finally 
came  to  their  pillows.  Nature  had  been  overtasked  and 
sadly  strained.  She  needed  rest. 

A  strange  noise — slight  at  first,  but  repeated  regularly, 
and  increasing  in  its  volume  —  awakened  the  mother.  Her 
ear  is  always  quicker  to  catch  these  slight  alarms  than  that 
of  any  other. 

Immediately  she  sprang  from  her  bed,  and  carried  the 
lamp  to  the  little  crib  in  which  the  infants  lay. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Humphreys,  alarmed 
at  being  wakened  so  suddenly. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  cannot  tell.  Poor  Arthur !  poor 
boy!" 

This  was  all  her  answer,  as  she  took  the  child  in  her 
arms  and  tried  to  bring  it  instant  relief.  The  little  one's 
sufferings  were  acute  and  terrible. 

"  The  croup,  William  !  —  the  croup  !  "  she  exclaimed. 

Such  wheezing  and  coughing,  from  the  choked  throat  of 
the  young  sufferer,  were  pitiful  to  listen  to.  At  one  moment 
it  seemed  as  if  it  could  not,  by  any  possibility,  draw  another 


TWO  IN  HEAVEN.  218 

•  breath;  and,  in  the  next,  it  would  be  convulsed  with  a 
terrible  fit  of  choking  and  coughing  that  made  the  hearts 
of  the  poor  parents  quake  with  fear. 

The  tears  were  streaming  down  Carrie's  cheeks.  This 
was  one  of  the  terrible  trials  she  had  ever  tried  to  be  pre 
pared  for,  but  to  which  few  natures,  in  the  time  of  their 
coming,  are  altogether  equal.  Poor  Carrie  !  who  is  there 
that,  in  this  trying  moment,  does  not  pity  you  ? 

The  efforts  and  struggles  of  the  child  to  obtain  breath 
Were  beyond  all  powers  of  description.  Its  face  would 
turn  perfectly  black  from  suffocation.  Its  breathing  could 
be  heard  any  where  in  the  room.  The  other  one,  that  still 
lay  in  the  crib,  was  badly  choked ;  but  its  danger  did  not 
seem  by  any  means  so  imminent  as  little  Arthur's.  Mr. 
Humphreys  hurried  desperately  to  get  to  the  doctor's  and 
bring  assistance.  He  went  out  of  the  door  hi  a  run.  The 
sound  of  the  door  smote  heavily  on  the  young  mother's 
heart.  She  exerted  herself  in  every  possible  way  to  get 
relief  for  her  infant,  giving  it  one  potion  after  another  — 
but  all  in  vain.  All  in  vain !  how  these  words  will  ring  in 
the  ears  of  those  who  have  been  themselves  called  to 
through  just  such  scenes  ! 

When  the  father  came  back  he  was  alone,  Doctor  Jen 
nings  promising  to  run  over  as  speedily  as  he  could  dress 
himself  and  lay  his  hand  on  his  medicines.  He  was  greatly 
at  loss  for  breath,  having  run  every  step  of  the  way.  The 
moment  he  opened  the  door  of  the  nursery  he  saw  Carrie 
holding  a  child  still  in  her  arms. 


214  OUR  PARISH. 

"  How  is  he  ?  any  easier  ?  "  were  his  first  questions  aa 
he  stepped  quickly  beside  her  to  look  at  the  little  one's 
face. 

In  a  moment  he  saw  that  she  held  Alfred,  the  other 
one. 

"  Arthur ! "  he  exclaimed  in  a  whisper  of  fear,  —  "  where 
is  he  ?  Let  me  take  him." 

She  pointed  to  the  bed,  her  tears  pouring  from  her  eyes, 
and  her  lips  trembling  and  quivering  with  her  terrible 
emotion.  It  seemed  as  if  her  frame  were  convulsed  to 
its  very  centre. 

The  father  looked  on  the  bed.  There  lay  the  infant, 
but  he  lay  perfectly  still.  He  had  ceased  his  struggles 
for  breath  now.  His  gentle  and  sunny  spirit  had  been 
released. 

He  took  him  up.  Rigid  already  !  Lifeless  —  colorless 
—  silent  in  death  ! 

O,  did  he  ever  thus  feel  the  surging  wave  of  agony  roll 
over  his  drowning  heart  before  ? 

The  doctor,  at  that  moment,  came  in.  He  was  struck 
dumb  with  what  he  saw.  The  tears  started  instantly  to 
his  eyes  —  he  who  had  been  so  many  years  accustomed  to 
scenes  of  anguish  and  misery  ! 

Could  any  help  be  got  for  the  one  that  survived? 
That  was  the  only  hope  left  now. 

"  Doctor,  save  my  other  child!" 

It  was  an  earnest  prayer,  and  given  in  a  voice  broken 
with  deepest  emotion. 


TWO   IN   HEAVEN.  215 

The  kind  physician  would  do  what  his  skill  could. 
None  could  do  more.  To  promise  more  were,  in  that 
hour,  a  fearful  mockery. 

The  respiration  became  more  and  more  difficult.  Sirups 
were  freely  employed,  medicines  properly  given ;  even 
extreme  measures  for  immediate  relief  were  resorted  to. 
Still  the  breath  came  quicker  and  quicker,  and  shorter 
and  shorter.  The  air  passages  choked.  The  convulsions 
attendant  on  suifecation  began  to  set  in.  The  doctor 
himself  became  at  once  alarmed,  and  bodingly  shook 
his  head. 

Alas!  alas!  I  can  only  chronicle  it  all.  I  cannot  de 
scribe  a  scene  so  heartrending. 

In  the  arms  of  Dr.  Jennings  himself,  the  other  babe 
suddenly  ceased  breathing. 

There  seemed  to  be  no  help  for  this  great  double  afflic 
tion.  It  came  upon  that  devoted  house,  at  the  dead  of 
night,  like  a  swift  thunderbolt.  There  was  no  evading 
it  or  thrusting  it  away.  There  was  no  hoping  it  might, 
for  even  a  brief  time,  be  delayed  for  a  later  and  greater 
sorrow. 

The  doctor  was  quite  overcome.  He  wept  with  those 
who  wept,  giving  them  freely  of  his  deepest  and  closest 
sympathies. 

"  Let  us  pray  ! "  solemnly  called  Mr.  Humphreys  ;  and 
all  knelt  down  together. 

From  that  house  of  mourning,  where  only  dark  clouds 
and  gloomy  shadows  were  brooding  thickly,  —  where  soba 


216  OUR   PARISH. 

and  sorrowing  filled  the  very  atmosphere  of  the  apart 
ments,  —  went  up  to  Heaven,  on  that  night  of  distress,  a 
prayer  for  mercy,  and  strength,  and  compassion,  and  grace, 
that  would  have  melted  a  heart  of  stone.  The  father 
supplicated  for  help  to  bear  up  under  so  great  a  burden 
of  grief.  He  asked  for  a  new  kindling  of  faith  in  their 
hearts,  that  they  might  look  upon  this  great  trouble  as  only 
the  means  of  drawing  them  closer  to  God.  He  craved  the 
continuance  of  his  Father's  abiding  love  for  them,  that 
sorrow  might  never  dim  their  sight  so  that  they  should 
wander  in  the  least  degree  from  the  straight  path.  Such  a 
prayer  had  never  so  gone  from  his  heart  and  lips  before. 
It  seemed  a  shining  of  the  clear  light  up  through  the  wall 
of  darkness,  and  its  steady  flame  illuminated  the  place. 
If  religion  meant  any  thing,  its  abounding  consolations 
would  offer  themselves  now.  And  those  consolations,  at 
this  time,  were  precious  indeed. 

When  Ellen  Walters  reached  Ingleside  in  the  morning, 
—  which  she  did  at  the  earliest  possible  hour,  —  she  was 
as  yet  ignorant  of  the  fate  of  her  darling  favorites.  She 
entered  the  nursery,  and  saw  the  mother  sitting  near  the 
bed. 

"  Ellen,"  sweetly  and  softly  said  the  stricken  mother, 
taking  the  girl's  hand,  "  only  be  calm.  God  is  good  to  us 
all  alike.  He  sends  us  nothing  except  in  mercy  and  love. 
There  are  your  dear  pets.  How  sweetly  they  sleep,  dear 
Ellen  ! "  And  the  tears  came  again  into  her  eyes. 

Ellen  looked  at  the  twins.     It  was  almost  impossible  to 


TWO   IN   HEAVEN.  217 

convince  her  that  they  were  dead.  She  could  hardly 
believe  even  what  she  saw.  She  was  frantic  with  grief 
when,  at  length,  the  truth  was  laid  bare  to  her  in  all  its 
open  reality.  All  their  words  of  persuasion  were  insuffi 
cient  to  soothe  and  compose  her.  She  threw  herself  on  the 
bed,  and  wept  as  if  her  very  heart  would  break. 

Let  me  pass  it  all  over.  It  moves  me  sadly  enough,  as 
the  sombre  memory  drifts  across  my  brain  again. 

That  sunny  day  in  spring,  when  the  church  doors  were 
thrown  wide  open,  and  the  sympathizing  people  flocked  in, 
when  the  coffin  that  contained  the  precious  ashes  of  both 

he  infants  lay  across  the  table  at  the  altar  rail,  —  when  the 
singing  of  the  choir  was  so  touchingly  plaintive,  and  the 
voice  of  the  stricken  father  was  hushed  in  silence,  and  the 
sobs  of  men  and  women  were  audible  all  over  the  house,  — 

low  can  this  ever  be  forgotten,  one  single  side  of  the  whole 
of  the  saddening  picture  ? 

That  long,  dark,  and  sober  procession  from  the  church 

o  the  village  churchyard,  threading  its  slow  way  along  the 
street,  the  bright  sun  shining  on  old  men  and  young  girls, 
on  faces  with  wrinkles  and  faces  like  fresh  roses,  —  how 
shall  so  impressive  a  sight  ever  sink  down  and  be  lost  in 
the  hiding-places  of  memory  ? 

The  sad  singing  of  the  hymn  at  the  grave,  more  like  a 
low  wail  of  distress  than  like  song,  —  the  solemn  voice  of 

the  pastor  brother  who  officiated,  —  the  last  look  of  the 


218  OUR   PARISH. 

, 

children  down  into  the  dark  grave,  that  had  thus  swallowed 
up  so  many  cherished  hopes,  —  the  slow  turning  away  of 
the  bereaved  parents  from  the  place,  their  hearts  swelling 
almost  to  bursting  with  grief,  —  what  pen  can  carry  to  the 
most  sympathetic  reader  even  a  tithe  of  the  melancholy 
meaning  of  it  all  ? 

The  mourners  returned  home  —  to  the  home  that  seemed 
now  deserted.  The  stricken  hearts  sought  their  own 
chamber.  Their  grief  was  too  sacred  for  intrusion.  None 
could  share  it.  No  other  heart  could  take  a  portion  of  it 
on  itself,  and  so  lighten  the  weary  ones  of  their  fearful 
load. 

Carrie  threw  her  head  on  her  beloved  husband's  bosom, 
and  gave  up  to  the  tempest  of  her  distress. 

It  was  long  before  she  could  be  calm  again.  No  words, 
even  from  her  husband's  lips,  availed  with  her  now.  He 
was  stricken,  too ;  but  she  was  the  mother.  Are  there 
not  mothers  every  where  who  will  know  the  difference  in 
the  grief? 

He  sat  in  silence  at  the  window,  looking  sadly  out  over 
the  yard.  Never  did  earth  seem  so  desolate  to  him  as 
now.  The  place  he  had  centred  his  affections  upon  was 
altogether  deserted. 

And  twilight  gathered  while  these  two  mourners  sat 
alone.  They  were  silent  and  thoughtful.  Their  lips 
seemed  sealed,  even  as  the  sepulchre  of  their  love  for  their 
children  had  that  day  been  sealed  for  a  lifetime  to  each. 


TWO   IN   HEAVEN.  219 

I  can  only  repeat  a  sweet  and  sad  stanza  from  the  poet 
•while  I  recall  this  scene,  and  they  shall  be  left  with  the 
kind  reader's  heartiest  sympathies :  — 

"  Only  with  silence  as  their  benediction 

God's  angels  come, 

When,  in  the  shadow  of  a  great  affliction, 
The  soul  sits  dumb." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

ZACK,   THE    CRIPPLE 

AMONG  the  other  notabilities  and  characters,  great  and 
small,  in  our  parish,  the  humblest  may,  perhaps,  —  and 
•why  not?  —  possess  as  much  interest  for  the  reader  as 
those  at  the  end  of  the  other  extreme. 

There  was  one  character  that  interested  every  body,  not 
more  strangers  in  the  village  than  those  who  had  had 
opportunities  of  knowing  him  for  years.  His  name  was 
Zack  Wheaton,  and  he  was  a  cripple. 

He  tenanted  a  small  box  of  a  red  house,  only  a  single 
story  high,  a  little  distance  off  the  village  street,  where  two 
maiden  sisters  attended  to  the  housekeeping,  and  he  to  the 
farming  and  general  out-of-door  business.  One  might 
smile  at  the  thought  of  a  cripple's  being  really  a  farmer ; 
but  cripple  as  old  Zack  Wheaton  was,  he  was  a  farmer  in 
spite  of  it.  And  people  said  that,  for  him,  he  was  an 
excellent  one,  too. 

The  spot  of  ground  he  improved,  it  is  true,  was  but 
limited,  scarce  amounting  to  two  good,  fair  acres ;  yet  he 

(220) 


ZACK,   THE    CRIPPLE.  221 

had  a  knack  of  getting  more  off  of  that  little  tract  than 
some  men  take  annually  from  acres  four  times  as  many. 
He  was  a  person  of  untiring  perseverance  and  industry. 
He  never  accomplished  a  great  deal  in  any  one  day,  but, 
as  people  have  a  habit  of  saying,  he  kept  pecking.  Now, 
as  ,it  is  the  constant  dripping  of  the  drops  that  wears  the 
rock,  so  it  was  the  steady  pecking  of  old  Zack  Wheaton 
that  overcame  his  difficulties. 

He  walked  on  his  knees,  having  no  sign  of  a  foot  to  put 
in  use.  Below  his  knees  his  limbs  were  wanting.  "  Blessed 
leetle  I  have  to  spend  for  shoe  leather,"  he  had  a  habit  of 
saying,  when  he  was  in  one  of  his  joking  moods.  So  on 
his  two  stumps  he  went  picking  his  way  about,  supporting 
himself  by  two  little  standards  the  boys  used  to  call  "  saw- 
horses,"  so  much  did  they  resemble  those  articles  so  service 
able  to  the  practical  carpenter. 

On  his  two-acre  farm  he  raised  every  variety  of  vegeta 
ble,  plant,  and  herb  it  is  possible  for  a  thoughtful  housewife 
to  stand  in  need  of.  Beans,  and  squashes,  and  melons ; 
cabbages,  and  beets,  and  onions ;  beds  of  herbs  for  drinks 
and  medicines,  —  these,  and  innumerable  other  tempting 
exhibitions,  he  kept  just  behind  and  beside  his  low-roofed 
mansion ;  and  he  stumped  out  to  show  you  his  treasures 
willingly,  making  two  round  indentures  in  the  soft  dirt  as 
he  went,  occasionally  turning  about  to  study  your  counte 
nance  like  some  little  dwarf  far  below  you. 

In  addition  to  the  raising  of  vegetables  and  seeds,  he  im 
proved  a  corner  of  his  field  as  a  nursery;  and  there  he  had 


222  OUE   PARISH. 

patiently  cultivated  tender  twigs  of  trees  till  they  became 
strong  and  able  to  endure  transplanting.  This  part  of  his 
labor  was  his  especial  delight ;  and  he  doubtless  spent  more 
time  over  it  than  over  any  other.  The  farmers  and  the  vil 
lagers  always  helped  old  Zack  along  a  little  by  the  pur 
chase  of  a  few  young  trees  each  spring  and  fall  when  he 
brought  them  down  the  street  in  that  unique  little  tilt  cart 
of  his ;  and  he  dropped  his  silver,  with  a  gladdened  look, 
into  the  leathern  pouch  to  which  he  confided  his  several 
collections,  thanking  his  patrons  always  with  a  merry  twin 
kle  of  his  bright  old  eyes.  Ah,  Zack,  there  are  few  better 
practical  philosophers  nowadays  than  were  you  in  your 
day,  taking  sunshine  and  rain  alike  pretty  much  as  they 
came,  thankful  that  your  heart  was  large  enough  to  enjoy 
all  it  did ! 

Mr.  Humphreys  occasionally  called  there,  having  done 
so  for  the  first  time  when  he  was  hunting  up  a  few  new 
varieties  of  cherry  and  plum  trees  for  the  parsonage  gar 
den.  He  liked  the  appearance  of  the  little  cripple  much  ; 
and  he  liked  his  sound  philosophy  still  more.  Added  to 
other  reasons,  this  certainly  was  one  why  he  was  attracted 
strongly  there.  The  two  maiden  sisters  attended  meeting 
pretty  regularly,  too  ;  and  when  their  brother  well  could, 
on  fine  days  for  instance,  he  came  along  after  them  in  his 
curious  vehicle. 

The  sisters  were  named  Hitty  and  Suke.  Hitty  was  the 
elder,  though  their  brother  was  the  eldest  of  all.  They 
were  as  totally  unlike  as  it  is  possible  for  any  two  sisters 


ZACK,    THE    CRIPPLE.  223 

to  be.  Hitty  had  gray  eyes^and  very  light  hair,  that  was 
now  getting  streaked  somewhat  with  the  silver.  Her  fore 
head  was  very  high  for  a  woman's  ;  and  it  had  innumerable 
fine  wrinkles,  like  the  small  plaits  in  a  shirt  frill.  And 
when  she  laughed  she  showed  just  four  extremely  long, 
white  teeth,  that  made  you  think  she  might  sometimes  eat 
her  meat  raw.  Yet  I  believe  she  was  perfectly  harmless, 
at  least  so  far  as  her  teeth  went :  it  was  her  tongue  that  was 
reckoned,  by  those  who  knew,  the  sharper  weapon. 

Suke  —  every  body  called  her  Suke,  even  to  her  brother 
and  sister — was  quite  the  antipodes  of  Hitty.  She  was  as 
silent  as  she  could  be  all  the  time.  Some  people,  who  had 
been  at  the  house  frequently  enough  to  form  an  opinion, 
thought  she  really  might  be  dumb ;  yet  she  was  always 
ready  with  her  ejaculatory  "  Humph ! "  whenever  her  sister 
Hitty  made  a  remark  that  did  not  happen  exactly  to  suit 
her ;  and  the  promptness  with  which  it  was  given  proved 
that  she  was  not  deaf,  even  if  she  were  dumb.  Put  them 
both  together,  and  the  sisters  made  still  a  new  and  third 
picture  by  the  simple  force  of  contrast. 

Mr.  Humphreys  was  over  there  one  afternoon,  about 
three  months  after  the  loss  of  his  dear  children,  and  met 
old  Zack  stumping  round  with  his  little  sawhorses  just  in 
the  road. 

"  Good  day,  good  day,  Mister  Humphreys  ! "  called  out 
the  remnant  of  the  man,  looking  up  almost  perpendicularly 
into  the  clergyman's  face.  "  I'm  glad  to  see  ye  over  here 
amongst  us  agin.  I'm  really  glad  to  see  ye  ! " 


224  OUR   PARISH. 

Mr.  Humphreys  advanced  and  accosted  him  with  cor 
responding  cordiality,  asking  after  his  health  and  that  of 
his  sisters.  He  did  not  offer  to  shake  hands  with  him,  for 
that  would  have  been  a  quite  impracticable  matter,  under 
the  circumstances. 

"  Yes,  our  folks  are  all  well,"  said  Zack.  «  Won't  you 
walk  in  and  see  'em  ?  They'll  be  glad  to  see  you  agin 
arter  all  your  late  trouble,  Mr.  Humphreys.  They've  got 
as  large  pitty  as  other  folks ;  only  they  are  nothing  but 
poor  people :  that's  all  the  difference,  you  see." 

As  the  little  cripple  hobbled  along  to  carry  out  what  he 
seemed  to  consider  the  becoming  ceremony  of  opening  the 
door  for  his  guest,  he  formed  as  quaint  and  grotesque  a 
picture  as  it  is  possible  for  the  human  mind  to  conceive. 
He  wore  a  peajacket  about  the  short  trunk  of  his  body, 
that,  on  him,  looked  rather  like  a  greatcoat  —  covering  him, 
up  entirely.  The  two  side  pockets  were  in  lieu  of  other 
convenient  receptacles  of  his  work  tools ;  and  Mr.  Hum 
phreys  could  detect  in  them,  as  his  ambling  gait  caused 
them  alternately  to  gape  wide  open,  now  the  handle  of  a 
hammer,  now  a  pair  of  pincers ;  here  a  gimlet,  and  there 
a  handful  of  nails  and  a  snarled  bunch  of  twine. 

Hitty  met  them  just  at  the  door,  and  greeted  the  minister 
with  a  hearty  shake  of  her  shrivelled  hand,  while  she  like 
wise  threw  her  forehead  into  a  hundred  minute  wrinkles, 
and  exhibited  her  long,  tusk-like  front  teeth. 

"Come  in,"  said  she,- stepping  briskly  before  him. 
"  Take  a  seat,  and  set  down ! "  —  and  she  dusted  a  chair 


ZACK,   THE    CRIPPLE.  225 

bottom  with  her  thin,  faded  apron.  "  I  ain't  in  very  good 
order  here  to-day ;  but  no  matter.  That  ain't  what  you 
come  to  see,  mabbe.  There's  Suke  !  Suke,  why  don't  you 
speak  ? " 

Mr.  Humphreys  saluted  the  other  and  more  sullen  sister, 
who  stood  spinning  out  a  lengthening  thread  at  the  wheel* 
She  had  stopped  the  drone  of  her  instrument  on  his  en 
trance  ;  and  there  she  still  stood,  holding  on  by  one  of  the 
long  spokes  of  the  wheel  with  one  hand,  pinching  her  thread 
between  the  finger  and  thumb  of  her  other,  and  staring 
with  all  the  intensity  her  mild  blue  eyes  could  express. 
She  only  replied  to  Mr.  Humphreys'  salutation,  — 

"  How  do  ?  " 

Zack  was  right  behind  his  guest,  and  squatted  himself 
on  a  very  low  chair,  with  arms  and  a  cushion,  the  moment 
he  got  in.  If  Suke  was  willing  that  the  conversation  should 
lag,  he  was  not. 

"Don't  you  want  some  young  trees  to-day?"  he  in 
quired,  pitching  his  voice  high  and  shrill.  "  I  guess  I've 
got  what  you  want  in  my  grounds." 

"Don't  Zack!"  said  HittJ-.  « 'Taint  perlite,  so  soon 
arter  a  person  gits  into  the  house  ;  and  the  minister,  too  ! " 

" I  didn't  think  of  taking  any  thing  to-day"  answered 
Mr.  Humphreys  ;  "  but  I  will  look  over  your  nursery  with 
you  presently,  if  you  please." 

"  Certainly  ;  yes  ;  it  does  me  as  much  good  to  walk  about 
in  my  little  patch  o'  trees  as  it  ever  did  a  live  lord  to  strut 
over  his  big  forests.  I've  read  o'  sich  things,  you  see,  in 
15 


226  OTTR  PARISH. 

my  day,  —  though  my  old  eyes  don't  let  me  read  a  great 
deal  nowdays,  —  and  I  think  on  'em  when  I'm  all  alone." 

"  It  is  a  blessed  thing  to  be  contented,  Mr.  Wheaton," 
remarked  Mr.  Humphreys ;  and  he  was  going  to  enlarge 
upon  his  remark,  when  he  was  interrupted  by  Hitty  with 
one  of  her  hollow  laughs,  — 

"Hal  ha!  he!"  she  began;  "Mr.  Wheaton!  No 
body  in  all  the  world  ever  called  him  any  thing  but  Zack, 
and  old  Zack  ;  and  here  the  minister  is  a  misterin'  of  him ! 
Well  done,  Zack  ! " 

Suke  smiled,  and  folded  her  hands  in  her  lap  as  she  sat 
down.  It  was  a  very  faint  smile,  however,  like  that  of  the 
sick  sun  in  a  day  in  midwinter. 

"Wai,  wal/"  exclaimed  the  cripple,  good  naturedly, 
"  what  of  it  ?  I  s'pose  I'm  most  old  enough  to  be  called  by 
a  title !  If  I  wasn't,  what  would  they  call  me  old  Zack 
for  ?  But  that's  no  matter  now.  Mr.  Humphreys  was  a- 
tellin'  of  a  body's  bein'  contented,  and  so ;  and  he  says  it's 
a  blessed  thing.  So  /think,  too.  /try  to  be  as  contented 
here  as  I  can.  I  know  there's  room  enough  in  the  house 
here  for  me,  for  I'm  sure  I  shouldn't  want  a  bigger  house  to 
travel  round  in ;  and  my  little  garding's  big  enough  for 
jest  the  same  reason.  So  I  feel  settled  down  all  the  while. 
I  couldn't  be  oneasy  if  I  would.  And  besides,  I  don't  see 
the  use  in't." 

The  clergyman  went  on  to  speak  of  the  virtues  content 
ment  bred  in  the  heart ;  making  people  charitable,  because 
it  enabled  them  first  of  all  to  possess  their  souls  in  peace  ; 


2ACK,  THE   CRIPPLE.  .        227 

and  shedding  a  bright  halo  about  the  circle  of  the  most 
humble  and  limited  life,  because  the  real  proportions  of 
one's  character  were  in  such  an  atmosphere  best  developed. 
"  Yet,"  said  he,  "  there  is  but  one  feeling  in  the  world  that 
can  produce  thii  contented  feeling." 

"  And  I'd  like  to  have  you  tell  me  what  that  is,"  said 
Zack. 

"  The  conviction  that  your  heart  is  at  peace  with  God." 

The  little  man  sank  down  still  farther  in  his  chair,  and 
cast  his  eyes  thoughtfully  on  the  floor. 

Hitty  began  toying  with  her  apron,  and  looked  at  the 
floor  likewise.  She  could  be  thoughtful  at  times,  even  if 
she  were  so  voluble  with  her  tongue. 

"Unless  a  person's  heart  is  right,"  added  Mr.  Hum 
phreys,  "  how  can  any  thing  be  right  ?  If  the  great  wheel 
is  still,  how  can  the  other  little  wheels  move?" 

"  Yes  —  yes,"  whispered  Hitty,  apparently  to  herself,  a,s 
she  still  kept  her  gaze  on  the  floor,  and  her  figure  rocking 
backward  and  forward. 

"  Many  people  imagine  religion  to  be  a  gloomy  thing ; 
but  true  religion  is  not.  Hypocrisy  undoubtedly  is.  But 
the  heart  that  leans  on  God  alone,  in  every  joy  and  every 
trial  this  world  has  to  offer,  is  a  heart  bathed  in  the  sun 
shine  of  God's  smiles.  If  he  chastises  even,  it  is  only  to 
produce  more  happiness  eventually.*  Perhaps  the  heart 
may  be  wandering  away,  and  the  stripes  are  necessary  to 
bring  it  back  again.  It  is  all  for  its  best  good  in  the  end. 


228  OUR  PARISH. 

I  have  been  chastised ;  but  I  can  say  it  has  done  my  heart 
great  good,  for  it  is  carried  nearer  than  ever  to  God." 

"  So  you  have  —  so  you  have  ! "  pitifully  exclaimed  the 
cripple.  "  I  don't  think  but  a  person  that's  reconciled  to 
what  you've  suffered  has  got  the  true  religion." 

"Well,  and  from  this  religious  trust  alone  can  spring 
contentment.  Nothing  else  begets  it.  We  may  say  we  are 
contented  and  happy  ;  but  let  a  greater  trial  than  we  have 
ever  yet  known  drive  its  cruel  wave  over  our  hearts,  and 
we  shall  then  know  if  we  have  the  true  feeling.  That  is 
the  surest  test  for  us,  after  all." 

"  I  said  /  was  contented  and  happy,"  returned  Zack, 
hitching  in  his  chair.  "  I  really  thought  I  was.  But  I 
don't  think  so  now." 

"Why  not?"  asked  Mr.  Humphreys. 

"  Jest  because  I  hav'n't  got  this  faith  you  talk  so  good 
about.  I'm  afraid,  if  I  should  lose  what  little  I've  scraped 
together,  I  should  be  any  thing  but  a  happy  man." 

"  That's  what  you  would  ! "  exclaimed  his  sister  Hitty. 

"  Umph ! "  exclaimed  the  other  sister,  folding  her  hands 
over  again. 

"  Then  this  is  your  truest  test,"  observed  Mr.  Hum 
phreys.  "  You  know  the  Bible  says,  *  Except  you  leave 
houses,  lands,  &c./  —  you  remember  the  passage  ?  " 

"  Sartain,  sartain,'*  answered  he. 

"  Yis,  I  guess  he  does,"  added  Hitty ;  "  for  he  always 
reads  his  Bible  all  day  Sunday.  He'd  orter  know  if  there 
is  such  a  passage  there." 


ZACK,  THE   CRIPPLE.  220 

"  Umph ! "  said  Suke ;  and  this  time  she  crossed  her 
hands. 

"  Now  examine  your  heart  by  this  rule,  each  one  of  you," 
said  Mr  Humphreys.  "  If  you  can  willingly  obey  the  in 
junction  without  a  lisp  of  murmuring  or  complaining,  be 
sure  you  have  the  true  feeling ;  and  it  is  worth  more  than 
all  the  gold,  and  silver,  and  precious  stones  that  men  toil 
for  early  and  late,  for  it  brings  exactly  what  they  think 
these  earthly  riches  can  buy." 

For  an*  hour  the  subject,  with  correlative  topics,  was 
talked  upon  by  them.  Zack  received  quite  new  views  of 
life  and  of  happiness,  good  as  he  was  in  the  habit  of  re 
garding  his  old  ones.  If  he  had  held  Mr.  Humphreys 
in  high  esteem  before,  that  habit  of  esteem  waS  greatly 
strengthened  now.  He  was  free  to  confess  —  and  he  did 
take  occasion  to  do  so  ever  after  —  that  no  minister  they 
had  ever  had  in  Brookboro'  was  equal,  in  any  respect,  to 
Mr.  Humphreys.  He  had  a  way  of  saying  that  "  he  be 
lieved  in  him  all  the  way  through." 

After  he  had  sat  thus  long  in  conversation  with  the  hum 
ble  inmates  of  the  house,  Mr.  Humphreys  proposed  a  walk 
over  the  grounds. 

«  Over  my  little  farm,  sir,"  said  Zack.  "  Yes,  yes,  by 
all  means.  Your  eye,  mabbe,  can  take  it  all  in  at  a  single 
quick  look  ;  but  you'll  find  'taint  none  the  less  pleasant  for 
all  that.  Come,  let  me  show  ye  round  ! " 

So  round  through  the  narrow  paths  the  little  cripple 
went,  his  loose  jacket  swinging  hither  and  yon  as  he 


230  OUB  PARISH. 


walked,  and  disclosing  the  entire  contents  of  both  its  pock 
ets.  First  he  pointed  out  the  rows  of  vegetables.  There 
were  many  varieties,  and  a  plenty  of  every  variety.  Beets 
and  carrots,  squashes  and  turnips,  they  crowded  together 
thickly  on  the  well-trained  soil.  And  there  were  long  beds 
of  onions,  from  which  he  told  Mr.  Humphreys  he  reckoned 
he  should  get  —  I  cannot  now  remember  how  many  bushels 
of  nice  white  onions,  good  as  gold  to  him  in  the  market. 
And  such  an  army  of  bean  poles,  all  inwreathed  like  so 
many  ancient  thyrsi  with  the  bearing  vines,  the  long  green 
and  tinted  pods  hanging  down  in  abundant  clusters  from 
the  bottom  to  the  top !  And  rows  of  pea  vines,  once  bear 
ing  finely  ;  but  soon  to  be  pulled  up,  and  their  spaces  sup 
plied  with  turnips.  And  cabbages,  spreading  wide  their 
great  broad  leaves,  full  of  wrinkles  and  puckers,  where  the 
dew  was  always  gathered  in  the  early  morning. 

But  his  pride  centred  chiefly  in  his  little  coppice  of 
fruit  trees ;  younglings  all  of  them,  that  had  felt  the  ten 
derness  of  his  hand  since  their  first  pale  sprouts  had  parted 
the  soil.  He  seemed  almost  to  know  each  one  of  them ; 
and  went  round  among  them  with  a  very  familiar  manner, 
as  if  he  were  going  to  call  off  their  names  one  by  one.  It 
was  exceedingly  new  to  observe  the  affection  he  had  for 
his  miniature  nursery. 

Mr.  Humphreys  expressed  himself  entirely  delighted 
with  what  he  saw ;  and  when  he  came  to  take  his  leave, 
he  could  not  help  dropping  the  remark,  that,  poor  as  they 
might  be  in  the  matter  of  worldly  goods,  they  were  yet 
richer,  far  richer,  than  many  whose  possessions  a  hun- 


ZACK,  THE    CRIPPLE.  231 

dred  times  outmeasured  theirs.  He  seemed  to  appreciate 
deeply  the  feeling  that  always  brooded  over  this  little  spot, 
and  could  compare  it  with  no  other  that  was  discoverable 
in  places  less  humble  than  this. 

Frequently  came  he  over  to  see  the  Wheatons,  some 
times  bringing  Carrie  with  him.  There  was  always  enough 
to  interest,  and  generally  something  to  amuse,  them  there. 
The  habits  of  the  maiden  sisters  were  a  complete  study  of 
themselves ;  and  the  original  ways  and  quaint  philosophy 
of  the  little  crippled  brother  were  attractions  capable  of 
drawing  any  one,  if  all  others  had  been  wanting. 

Summer  and  winter,  old  Zack  Wheaton  toddled  about 
his  place  as  happy  as  the  happiest.  If  his  sisters  were 
ever  cross,  he  was  so  much  the  merrier.  If  they  scolded, 
he  sang.  When  things  went  wrong  a  little,  he  said  he 
could  put  them  right  again ;  and  sometimes  made  them 
farther  out  of  the  way  than  ever  by  trying  to  better  mat 
ters  he  did  not  quite  understand.  To  plant  and  to  sow,  to 
spade  and  to  hoe,  to  harvest  and  carry  to  market,  to  braid 
mats  and  make  baskets,  —  all  the  while  whistling,  and 
singing,  and  laughing  aloud,  —  this  was  the  happy  life  of 
little  Zack  Wheaton.  His  heart  was  a  barometer  for  all 
who  came  near  its  influence.  When  he  first  drove  up  the 
street  with  his  early  trees  and  shrubs,  every  one  was  sat 
isfied  that  spring  had  come  ;  for  Zack  Wheaton  never  took 
up  his-  plants  till  the  heart  of  winter  was  broke  and  the 
brooks  were  swimming  down  through  the  meadows. 

Happy  cripple !  How  few  with  sound  bodies  have  aa 
sound  hearts  as  thou! 


CHAPTER   XX. 

THE    CONSUMPTIVE. 

ELLEN  WALTERS  was  but  a  frail  child  at  best.  Her 
flgrfre  was  very  slight,  and  her  face  very  pale.  She  was 
almost  too  delicate  for  earth,  in  heart  as  well  as  body. 

The  troubles  begotten  of  the  death  of  the  twins  she  had 
petted  so  fondly  wore  on  her  spirits  continually.  It  was 
easy  to  see  that  she  was  broken  down  from  the  day  she 
beheld  them  in  death's  embrace.  She  had  never  recovered 
in  the  least  from  the  depth  of  grief  into  which  that  harrow 
ing  sight  had  plunged  her. 

Carrie  was  with  her  much,  oftentimes  sending  over  for 
her  to  come  and  remain  for  days  together  at  Ingleside. 
But  the  child  always  fell/  distressed  about  coming.  She 
could  not  bear  to  go  about  in  the  same  rooms  again  where 
she  had  played  so  many  times  with  the  twins.  She  could 
not  stand  for  a  moment  in  the  apartment  where  they  died 
without  breaking  out  in  tears.  It  gave  her  extreme  pain 
to  see  lying  round  the  little  playthings  —  shells,  and  rattles, 
and  whistles  —  that  had  helped  amuse  them  when  alive. 

(232) 


"4 

THE   CONSUMPTIVE.  233 

They  seemed  to  know  her  face.  They  smiled  upon  her. 
They  were  a  true  and  deep  gladness  to  her  heart.  And 
now  they  were  gone  —  gone  out  of  her  earthly  sight  for 
ever! 

She  never  ceased  to  reproach  herself  for  the  imprudence 
of  which  she  was  guilty  with  them,  and  by  which  impru 
dence  she  felt  that  their  precious  lives  were  sacrificed. 
Her  spirit  bowed  then,  and  her  heart  broke.  Carrie  saw 
the  trouble,  and  felt  how  dark  and  gloomy  it  was  as  it  cast 
its  big  shadow  across  the  pathway  of  her  young  life ;  and 
her  efforts  were  constant  to  relieve  her  of  her  destroying 
oppression.  She  sat  and  talked  with  her  for  hours  to 
gether,  trying  to  lighten  her  spirits.  She  conversed  on 
other  subjects  till  she  found  it  was  much  better  to  touch  on 
the  very  one  that  should  have  been  proscribed  altogether. 

The  darling  infants  were  in  the  child's  mind,  and  on  her 
tongue,  continually.  She  could  do  nothing  but  think  of 
them.  She  could  hardly  do  any  more  than  talk  of  them 
all  the  time. 

Her  health  gradually  grew  still  more  delicate  each  month 
of  the  dying  year ;  and  when  winter  finally  set  in,  heralded 
with  the  hoarse  trumpets  of  the  winds  that  brayed  defiance 
over  the  whole  face  of  the  earth,  and  when  the  days  grew 
shorter,  and  the  nights  long  and  silent,  she  was  but  the  relic 
of  her  former  self,  shadowy  and  frail  as  that  former  self 
was.  She  grew  sadder  and  sadder  every  day,  just  as  the 
sun  grew  fainter  and  fainter.  Shex  watched  its  shadows 
on  her  carpet,  and  felt  that  her  own  life  was  thus  fading 


234  OUK    PAK1SH. 

away.  She  could  not  sew,  she  could  not  read.  Few  came 
to  sit  with  her,  for  she  was  a  half  myth  in  her  nature  to 
them  all :  yet  she  had  their  full  sympathies,  though  it 
might  be  unknown  to  her. 

It  was  near  the  close  of  the  year  when  Mrs.  Humphreys 
happened  to  be  sitting  with  her  in  her  little  chamber,  — - 
for  she  was  confined  to  that  closely  now,  —  and  they  were 
talking  of  sickness  and  death  with  each  other.  Ellen  had 
said  that  she  felt  as  if  she  should  never  be  any  better. 

"It  is  the  very  worst  thing  for  you,"  returned  Mrs. 
Humphreys,  "  to  think  so.  The  best  and  first  step  to  health 
is  good  spirits.  Try  to  look  up  a  little,  dear  Ellen.  This 
downcast  mood  will  be  worse  than  all  else  for  you." 

Still  she  could  not  rally  her. 

"  My  feelings  tell  me,"  said  Ellen,  "  what  my  looks  do 
not  confess  to  another.  I  do  not  believe  I  shall  ever  see 
another  winter  in  this  world,  Mrs.  Humphreys." 

So  direct  an  avowal  startled  the  sympathizing  wife,  and 
for  a  moment  she  said  nothing  in  reply. 

"I  think  all  the  time  of  the  dear  children,"  said  the 
girl,  the  tears  in  her  eyes.  "  How  can  I  help  it  ?  " 

"  Does  it  not  make  you  happy,  Ellen,  to  know  that  they 
are  resting  in  the  arms  of  their  Savior  ?  " 

"  O,  yes ;  yes,  indeed.  But  how  can  I  help  regretting 
that  their  sweet  lives  were  so  brief?  I  accuse  myself, 
Mrs.  Humphreys ;  you  can  never  know  how  much ! " 

"  That  does  no  good,  dear  Ellen.  You  should  not  give 
up  to  such  feelings.  Every  thing  has  been  ordered  just 


THE    CONSUMPTIVE.  235 

as  it  is.  Not  even  a  sparrow  falls  to  the  ground  without 
our  Father's  notice ;  and  even  the  hairs  of  our  head  are 
numbered.  God's  love  shines  out  through  all,  dear  child. 
I  can  think  of  my  babes  now  as  being  in  the  everlasting 
sunshine  and  radiance  of  God's  smile.  The  thought  brings 
me  constant  joy.  I  look  forward  to  the  time  when  I  shall 
join  them  again,  never  to  have  them  torn  from  the  embrace 
of  my  love  by  death.  You  loved  them,  too,  Ellen." 

"  O,  how  much  I  loved  them  I" 

"  Then  you  will  meet  them  again,  even  as  you  hope  to 
see  and  know  your  own  dear  mother,  who  has  gone  before. 
We  shall  all  know  and  love  our  friends  in  heaven.     It  is 
a  blessed  reflection." 
.    Ellen  was  weeping. 

"  If  your  heart  is  really  a  partaker  of  the  peace  Jesus 
promises  to  those  who  believe,  and  truly  believe,"  continued 
Mrs.  Humphreys,  "  you  will  see  no  cause  for  lamentation 
or  complaint  in  any  single  ordering  of  events.  Your  heart 
will  be  at  peace." 

Thereupon  Mrs.  Humphreys  rose  and  took  the  Bible 
that  lay  on  the  stand,  and,  opening  it,  read  aloud  to  Ellen 
from  various  parts  of  the  New  Testament.  It  was  from 
Revelation,  especially,  that  she  liked  to  read ;  the  pictures 
of  the  new  life  were  so  vividly  drawn,  portraying  the 
beauty  and  splendor  of  the  Jerusalem  that  is  to  be,  with 
its  golden  streets,  and  its  gates  and  walls  of  crystal,  and 
with  its  clear  river  running  through  the  streets,  and  raising 
to  her  imagination  scenes,  such  as  are  not  in  all  the  jjal- 


236  OUR   PARISH. 

leries  that  earth  can  boast,  of  green  pastures  and  limpid 
brooks,  of  white  and  innocent  flocks  reclining  peacefully 
by  the  streams,  the  kind  Shepherd  walking  among  them 
and  dispensing  his  smiles,  —  these  were  the  pictures  that 
fixed  the  soul  of  the  frail  girl,  and  she  tried  to  take  them 
into  her  heart  as  realities  already. 

It  was  an  uncommonly  cold  and  gloomy  day  without,  and 
it  is  not  improbable  that  the  appearance  of  things  out  of 
doors  may  have  had  its  influence  on  Ellen's  spirits.  But 
when  her  kind  friend  rose  to  go  she  had  greatly  changed, 
and  the  load  had  been  much  lightened. 

Mrs.  Humphreys  met  Ellen's  father  below  stairs,  just  as 
she  was  passing  out  through  the  entry. 

"  How  do  you  think  she  is,  to-day,  Mrs.  Humphreys  ? " 
he  anxiously  asked  her. 

She  was  his  only  child,  and  he  loved  her  tenderly  as  a 
father  could. 

"  I  think  she  is  very  feeble,"  Mrs.  Humphreys  felt 
obliged  to  answer  him. 

The  father  shook  his  head. 

"  Poor  child  ! "  he  uttered  in  a  whisper. 

"  The  day  seems  to  have  had  some  effect  on  her  spirits ; 
but  I  have  tried  to  help  her  throw  off  all  that.  I  have 
been  sitting  and  talking  and  reading  to  her  for  some  time. 
I  think  she  was  much  calmer  in  her  feelings  when  I  took 
my  leave." 

"Ah,  Mrs.  Humphreys,"  said  he,  his  eyes  filling  with 
water,  "I  cannot  thank  you  enough  for  your  goodness. 


THE   CONSUMPTIVE.  237 

I've  seen  a  great  deal  of  trouble  for  one  heart.  Perhaps 
there's  more  just  at  hand.  Sometimes  I  think  it  must  be 
so,  and  my  heart  almost  misgives  me." 

"  Whatever  is  put  upon  our  shoulders,  Mr.  Walters,  God 
intends  that  we  should  bear.  He  has  a  design  in  all 
things.  If  afflictions  come,  let  us  only  pray  that  we  may 
improve  by  their  sad  teachings.  Our  life  here  is  soon 
over;  we  shall  be  united  in  another  world." 

And,  with  her  heart  too  full  to  utter  another  word,  she 
opened  the  door  and  went  out,  leaving  the  father  standing 
alone. 

Immediately  he  went  up  to  Ellen's  room,  and  sat  down 
and  remained  with  her  for  a  long  time.  This  he  was  in 
the  habit  of  doing  every  day,  fearing  for  her  feeling  lonely 
and  dispirited.  He  was  an  affectionate  man,  and  had  a 
true  and  womanly  heart  beneath  his  none  too  refined  exte 
rior  ;  and  he  would  gladly  have  endured  any  earthly  trial 
or  suffering  himself  rather  than  see  his  only  child  in  her 
present  condition.  But  that  was  not  for  him  to  choose. 
His  part  was  to  bear  in  silence  and  submission. 

Every  day  almost  Mrs.  Humphreys  was  at  the  side  of 
her  dear  young  friend,  except  on  such  days  as  when  the 
inclemency  of  the  weather  prevented.  But  Mr.  Humphreys 
was  there  constantly,  rain  or  shine.  He  loved  much  to 
talk  with  her  of  God  and  heaven.  He  loved  to  have  her 
give  up  all  the  wealth  of  her  deep  feelings  to  him  with  the 
simplicity  that  betokens  childhood  —  her  temper  seemed 
so  sweet,  and  all  her  commonest  thoughts  so  free  from 
guile. 


238  OUR   PARISH. 

Daily  her  symptoms  became  worse,  save  when,  now  and 
then,  a  fresh  dawning  of  hope  revived  in  her  breast  in  the 
morning,  only  to  deceive  her  cruelly  in  the  evening.  Ah, 
there  is  no  disease  that  so  deeply  wears  its  way  into  the  very 
heart  itself  as  the  deceitful  disease  of  consumption.  Its  vic 
tim  is,  one  day,  so  much  improved  in  all  her  appearances, 
and  the  color  plays  so  daintily  about  the  cheeks,  and  the  eyes 
swim  in  the  brilliancy  of  a  new  life ;  and  the  next,  or  even 
by  the  nightfall,  every  buoyant  hope  is  gone,  every  trace  of 
revived  spirits  is  hidden,  the  disease  is  clutching  steadily 
at  the  weary  heart  again,  and  the  poor,  patient,  deluded  vic 
tim  falls  back  into  the  dismal  slough  of  despondency  once 
more.  There  are  no  diseases  that  so  challenge  the  whole 
sympathy  of  beholders,  even  if  they  be  not  friends. 

Late  in  January  it  was  when  Mrs.  Humphreys  had 
another  conversation  with  the  child,  which  clung  tena 
ciously  to  her  memory.  Ellen  was  talking  of  dying  again. 
The  subject  seemed  all  the  time  in  her  mind. 

She  had  grown  paler  and  thinner  than  ever.  Her  eyes 
were  very  large,  and  so  lighted  with  a  strange  expression 
that  even  Carrie  shuddered  to  look  steadily  into  them. 
And  her  long,  dark  eyelashes  swept  her  cheek,  setting  off 
the  expression  with  a  something  akin  to  ghastliness. 

Ellen  sat,  bolstered  in  a  great  arm  chair,  looking  but  the 
ghost  of  her  former  self,  her  countenance  melancholy  in 
the  extreme,  and  her  feelings  evidently  much  exercised 
with  the  subject  that  was  uppermost  in  her  mind.  Mrs. 
Humphreys  asked  how  she  was  that  afterrioon. 


THE    CONSUMPTIVE.  239 

"I  don't  know,"  she  answered,  plaintively.  "I  don't 
think  I'm  any  better,  Mrs.  Humphreys." 

Carrie  sat  down  beside  her  and  held  her  hand. 

"  Sometimes  I  think  I  shall  be  called  away  before  you 
will  come  again ;  and  then  I  try  to  feel  what  your  sorrow 
would  be,  to  come  and  find  me  gone,  and  you  had  spoken 
no  last  words  to  me.  O  Mrs.  Humphreys !  I  think  so 
much  about  the  little  boys,  too.  I  know  I  shall  see  them 
soon  now.  Something  tells  me  it  will  not  be  long." 

"  Ellen  —  dear  Ellen,"  said  her  good  friend,  "  do  you 
feel  at  all  afraid  to  die  ?  " 

"  No  —  no,  Mrs.  Humphreys.  I  am  all  ready,  waiting 
the  Lord's  own  good  time.  He  will  put  me  beyond  the 
reach  of  these  daily  trials,  that  tear  my  poor  heart  so." 

"  Do  you  believe  that  Christ  has  come  into  your  heart, 
Ellen,  and  taken  possession  there  ?  Have  you  any  doubts, 
when  you  think  of  it  all  seriously  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Humphreys,  I  think  1  feel  as  if  Christ  were  truly 
mine.  It  makes  me  so  happy,  the  thought  of  it." 

"  Should  you  be  as  ready  to  live  as  you  now  feel  to  die, 
if  it  were  God's  good  will  to  spare  you  to  us  yet  a  little 
while  longer?  Should  you  feel  no  impatience  that  the 
thread  that  held  you  to  life  was  not  sooner  cut  asunder  ?  " 

"  I  hope  not.  I  try  to  feel  reconciled  to  whatever  may 
come,  Mrs.  Humphreys." 

"  Then  your  heart  is  at  peace.  But  if  there  is  the  least 
murmuring  or  repining,  be  sure  that  something  is  wrong ; 
something  then  needs  immediate  correction." 


240  OUR   PARISH. 

"  Jesus  is  very  dear  to  me,"  faintly  returned  the  girl. 
"  I  love  him  as  my  only  friend.  He  will  be  my  stay  and 
comforter.  I  feel  that  I  have  given  all  up  to  him." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  The  ground  will  be  hard  when  they  dig  my  grave," 
said  she  again.  "The  white  snow  will  drift  about  my 
sleeping-place,  so  that  you  will  not  know  where  I  lie.  It 
will  be  heaped  up  against  my  headstone.  I  shall  lie,  all 
alone,  in  the  old  yard,  with  only  dear  mother  near  me. 
Shall  you  have  to  walk  through  the  deep  snows  to  my 
funeral  ?  Will  they  have  to  dig  paths  for  them  to  get  to 
my  grave  ?  " 

Carrie  could  not  answer  her,  but  pressed  her  hand  in 
silence. 

"  Don't  feel  sad  when  I  am  gone,"  she  continued.  "  I 
shall  be  with  little  Alfred  and  Arthur,  and  love  them  more 
than  ever.  They  are  good  angels  now.  Shall  I  be  good 
enough  to  become  an  angel,  Mrs.  Humphreys  ?  " 

"If  you"' give  yourself  all  to  your  Savior,"  answered 
she,  weeping.  - 

"  Don't  cry  for  me,"  begged  Ellen ;  "I  wish  you  wouldn't, 
my  dear  Mrs.  Humphreys.  I  am  so  happy  now,  and  you 
so  wretched.  I  hope  you  will  not  forget  me  when  I  am 
gone  ;  but  I  do  not  wish  you  to  cry  so  for  me.  I  shall 
be  happier  in  heaven  than  I  can  be  here.  And  you  will 
come  over  and  sit  by  my  grave,  in  the  little  burying 
yard,  when  you  go  to  train  the  roses  on  the  graves  of 
dear  Alfred  and  Arthur.  Will  you  plant  one  white  rose 


THE   CONSUMPTIVE.  241 

at  the  head  of  my  grave,  good  Mrs.  Humphreys?  —  a 
white  one  ?  It  will  always  make  you  think  of  the  girl  that 
loved  you  so  much  when  she  was  alive.  The  graveyard 
is  not  such  a  very  lonely  place,  Mrs.  Humphreys." 

When  Carrie  reached  home  she  narrated  to  Mr.  Hum 
phreys  all  that  had  passed  between  her  and  the  dying 
girl.  It  was  her  earnest  desire  that  the  Child  be  gratified 
in  every  little  earthly  wish  that  remained.  And  thereafter 
Mr.  Humphreys  paid  longer  visits  at  the  house  of  Mr. 
Walters,  conversing  with  the  failing  one  as  long  as  she 
I  could  bear  it  safely,  and  gently  smoothing  for  her  the 
path  down  to  the  grave  by  his  pious  and  affectionate 
consolations. 

He  and  Carrie  both  went  over  one  day.  It  was  in  the 
latter  part  of  winter,  and  the  air  full  of  falling  snow. 
They  staid  from  early  in  the  forenoon  until  late  in  the 
afternoon.  Mr.  Walters  was  close  at  hand,  his  stricken 
heart  bleeding.  He  was  much  to  be  pitied,  indeed.  Va 
cantly  he  walked  all  about  the  house,  as  if  he  were  lost 
in  his  own  home.  Every  room  seemed  to  him  to  be 
banked  with  gloom. 

Ellen  was  on  the  bed  now,  propped  up  in  a  half-sitting 
posture  with  pillows.  O,  how  weak !  how  pale  !  how  shad 
owy  !  The  lamp  must  be  fast  going  out. 

Her  friends  saw  it; 'they  had  tried  to  avert  the  reality, 
to  put  it  off,  as  long  as  they  could ;  they  had  prayed  and 
watched  with  her,  beseeching  for  a  gift  of  new  strength, 


242  OUR  PARISH. 

and  anxiously  looking  to  see  if  the  gift  could  be  hers.  But 
the  hour  seemed  finally  drawing  nigh. 

Her  father  could  not  bear  to  be  in  the  room  long  at  a 
time ;  his  feelings  rose  to  such  a  pitch  of  turbulent  grief 
that  he  was  totally  unable  to  control  them.  He  would  step 
across  the  floor  to  the  foot  of  her  bed,  gaze  into  her  dying 
face  a  few  moments,  look  round  upon  the  others  with  an 
expression  of  indescribable  anguish,  and  suddenly  go  out 
again. 

"  Father,"  said  she,  when,  on  one  of  these  times,  he  had 
placed  himself  opposite  her,  "  will  you  come  and  hold  my 
hand?" 

He  obeyed  her  call  as  if  he  had  been  the  merest  child. 

"Dear  father,"  she  said,  "I  shall  be  with  you  but  a 
short  time  now.  I  am  going  home.  I  shall  see  mother 
again.  Don't  weep  for  me,  father,  after  I  am  gone.  I 
shall  be  happy." 

The  tears  already  streamed  from  his  eyes. 

"  I  can't  bear  to  lose  you,  Ellen,"  said  he,  in  a  broken 
and  trembling  voice.  "  It  almost  kills  me  to  think  of  it." 

"  But  we  must  all  die,  at  some  time  or  other,"  she 
replied. 

"  I  know  it,  dear  Ellen ;  I  know  it.     But " 

"  Then  why  not  be  reconciled  to  God's  good  pleasure 
in  the  matter  ?  He  gave  us  life ;  he  certainly  has  a  right 
to  take  it  when  he  chooses.  If  he  calls  for  me  now,  father, 
ought  I  to  be  backward  in  obeying  his  call  ?  " 

«  No  —  no,  my  child.     You  are  right ;  you  are  always 


THE   CONSUMPTIVE.  243 

.»       w^,«  "'; 

right."  And  he  smoothed  down  the  thin  hair  on  the  side 
of  her  head  next  him,  petting  her  with  his  hand. 

"  And  if  /  am  ready  to  go,  father,  ought  not  you  to  be 
ready  to  have  me  ?  " 

He  answered  nothing ;  his  emotions  choked  his  ut 
terance. 

"  I  wish  you  would  feel  as  ready  to  die,  father,  as  I  am, 
this  moment.  O,  why  will  you  not  give  your  heart  to 
your  Savior?  Dear  father,  you  are  the  last  one  left; 
shall  you  not  meet  us  all  at  last  ?  Shall  you  be  left  out 
of  our  circle  in  heaven?  Say  that  you  will  set  every 
thing  in  readiness  for  your  departure.  Do  not  put  off 
this  great  work  till  it  is  too  late.  Do  promise  that  you 
will  set  your  house  in  order,  dear  father,  and  be  ready 
when  the  call  comes.  It  may  come  suddenly.  I  shall  die 
so  much  happier  —  O,  so  much  happier ! " 

He  bowed  his  head  and  dropped  to  his  knees ;  his  heart 

was  melted, 
i 

Mr.  Humphreys  knelt  down  beside  him  in  that  sick 
room  and  offered  a  prayer  to  Heaven.  He  besought  that 
that  day  might  be  a  memorable  day  for  all,  especially  for 
the  father ;  that  his  heart  might  be  entirely  given  up  to 
God,  without  a  protest,  even  unspoken  ;  that  the  other 
heart,  now  so  near  home,  might  be  received  into  its 
Father's  house,  where  were  many  mansions  prepared  for 
those  who  did  his  will.  His  solemn  tones  rang  over  the 
whole  house,  through  the  chambers  and  the  entries.  It 
was,  in  truth,  for  that  day,  a  house  of  prayer. 


244  OUR  PARISH. 

Carrie  sat  down  near  Ellen,  on  the  side  opposite  her 
father,  and  held  her  other  hand,  bathing  it  with  her  tears. 

"  O  my  Savior ! "  sweetly  exclaimed  the  child,  rolling  up 
her  eyes  in  an  ecstatic  frenzy  of  feeling.  "  Come,  Jesus  ! 
come  quickly !  Take  me  to  thy  bosom ! " 

"  Almost  home,"  said  Mrs.  Humphreys,  in  a  low  Toice ; 
"  almost  home,  dear  child." 

"  Yes  —  yes,  I  see  the  blessed  heaven.  Come,  my  Sa 
vior  !  Come,  Lord  —  come  quickly !  O  my  dear  father  ! 
make  your  peace  with  God.  Jesus  stands  waiting  for  you 
with  open  arms.  We  shall  all  meet  again  in  heaven." 

"  Yes  —  in  heaven,"  repeated  Mr.  Humphreys. 

"  Little  Alfred  and  Arthur !  and  dear  mother,  too ! " 
added  the  exhausted  and  rapidly-sinking  girl.  "O,  we 
shall  never  be  separated  again." 

"No  more  death,"  said  Mr.  Humphreys,  "no  more  tears 

—  no  more  parting.   Blessed  be  Jesus  for  his  dear  promises 
to  us  all." 

"  Yes,  blessed  —  blessed  Jesus  ! "  she  repeated.  "  Dear 
father,  do  give  yourself  to  God.  It  will  make  me  die  so 
happy.  I  shall  know  then  that  you  will  meet  us  again. 
Only  tell  me,  before  I  die,  that  you  will  give  up  your  heart 

—  all  your  heart.     Dear  father,  before  I  die  !     I  cannot 
stay  long.     My  breath  is  so  hard  !  " 

The  father  wept  as  a  child.  He  was  perfectly  un 
manned.  This  was  the  sinking  away  of  his  last  hope 
and  stay.  Henceforth  his  way  in  the  world  would  be 
alone 


THE    CONSUMPTIVE.  245 

*f     •,  _^"  ./  fr^j, 

«  Yes  —  yes,  my  child,"  he  cried.     "  I  do  —  I  do." 

"  Al^  father  ?  your  whole  heart  ?  "  asked  the  dying  girl,  her 
pale  face  lighting  with  an  expression  still  more  heavenly. 

"  Dear  Ellen,  I  hope  I  may  live  the  rest  of  my  life  as 
I  should.  I  will  try  and  reach  heaven." 

It  was  all  he  could  say.  He  wept  afresh,  bowing  his 
head. 

The  answer  was  sufficient. 

"  O,  I  am  so  happy  ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  I  am  dying  so 
easy !  How  long  shall  I  be  dying,  Mrs.  Humphreys  ?  It 
doesn't  seem  to  me  like  death  ;  I  do  not  fear  it ;  I  think  I 
shall  be  so  much  happier  with  Jesus  ;  and  no  more  sorrow, 
and  no  more  sickness,  nor  trouble,  nor  pain.  O,  is  this 
death?" 

Her  fragmentary  expressions  so  deeply  affected  her 
father  and  her  dear  friend  Mrs.  Humphreys  that  they 
were  unable  to  answer  her  much.  Mr.  Humphreys  alone 
remained  calm  through  the  whole. 

She  thanked  both  her  friends  over  and  over  again  for 
their  kindest  of  care,  and  hoped  they  would  always  be 
happy  here,  and  finally  obtain  their  exceeding  great  re 
ward.  Then  she  asked  Mr.  Humphreys  if  he  would  not 
repeat  that  hymn,  which  was  a  favorite  one  of  hers, 
beginning,  — 

"  Jesus  can  make  a  dying  bed  |h| 

Feel  soft  as  downy  pillows  are ;  " 

which  he  did,  she  repeating  many  of  the  lines  after  him, 


246  OUR   PARISH. 

and  seeming  to  realize  the  deep  truth  of  each  one  of 
them. 

She  at  length  lay  quiet  for  some  minutes,  they  all 
watching  her  breathing  intently.  It  was  evident  that  the 
flame  was  flickering,  just  preparatory  to  going  out.  She 
seemed  to  lie  in  the  lap  of  some  sweet  dream. 

Suddenly  she  opened  her  eyes  widely,  and  looked  round 
at  each  one  of  them. 

"  Farewell !  farewell !  We  shall  all  meet  in  heaven. 
Come,  Lord  Jesus !  come  quickly ! "  she  exclaimed,  in  a 
voice  but  little  above  a  dying  whisper. 

These  were  her  last  words.  She  had  reached  heaven 
and  home  at  last. 

There  she  lay,  looking  more  like  a  seraph  than  a  being 
of  earth,  her  face  whiter  than  the  pillow  itself,  and  that 
dying  smile  peacefully  lingering  about  her  colorless  lips. 

Gone !  Yes,  the  frail  child  had  gone  where  frame 
would  be  no  more  exposed  to  disease,  nor  heart  chilled 
with  the  cold  contact  of  earth  —  where  the  clouds  and  the 
mists  are  never  seen  in  the  sky,  and  the  bright  sunshine 
laughs  over  the  plains  eternally. 

And  still  the  snows  came  down  without,  and  the  ground 
was  white  with  its  fleecy  covering.  But  the  storm  was 
noiseless  when  the  spirit  passed  away. 


CHAPTER    XXI. 

THE  BLIND  GIRL. 

MR.  HUMPHREYS  had  another  humble  abode  where  he 
was  in  the  frequent  habit  of  visiting,  and  where  he  gath 
ered  many  a  lesson  of  life  and  many  a  happy  experience. 

It  was  at  the  little  house  where  lived  a  widow  named 
Margaret  Gray.  With  this  woman  likewise  lived  a  young 
girl,  who  had  for  many  years  been  blind.  Her  name  was 
Jessie  Dean. 

Of  her  former  history  but  little  was  really  known  —  no 
more  than  that  she  had  been  brought  into  the  village  by 
a  man  who  obtained  Mrs.  Gray's  assent  to  her  living  with 
her,  for  a  few  years,  until  she  should  be  grown  to  woman 
hood,  and  that  she  had  a  brother  somewhere  in  the  far 
away  metropolis. 

She  was  an  amiable  and  innocent  girl,  and  really  of 
remarkable  personal  beauty.-  Her  mind  was  very  quick 
and  acute ;  and  she  picked  up  a  great  deal  of  intelligence 
by  listening  to  the  conversation  of  people  with  whom  she 
was  thrown,  though  the  blessing  of  light  was  denied  her 

(247) 


248  OUR   PARISH. 

in  her  efforts  for  improvement.  To  be  blind,  —  O,  who 
can  sound  the  great  deep  of  the  darkness  ?  To  repeat  the 
burning  words  of  one  who  has  suffered,  — 

"Around  me  is  a  darkness  omnipresent, 

"With  boundless  horror  grim, 
Descending  from  the  zenith,  ever  crescent, 

To  the  horizon's  rim  j 
The  golden  stars,  all  charred  and  blackened  by  it, 

Are  swept  out  one  by  one  ; 
My  world  is  left  as  if,  at  Joshua's  fiat, 

A  moonless  Ajalon." 

Jessie  Dean  sang  in  the  village  choir,  and  every  body 
said  her  sweet  voice  was  melody  itself.  Taking  her  place 
in  the  front  row,  where  her  gentle  and  smiling  face  could 
be  distinctly  seen  of  all  in  the  church,  her  songs  seemed 
begotten  of  real  rapture  as  she  electrified  the  hearts  of 
those  below.  There  was  a  spirit  of  deep  and  true  devotion 
in  every  line  she  sang.  She  literally  praised  God  in  song ; 
it  was  no  lip  service,  while  the  heart  was  wandering  away 
—  it  was  the  language  of  nothing  but  soul  melody  itself. 

On  those  heavenly  Sundays  in  the  summer,  when  the 
windows  of  the  little  meeting  house  were  wide  opened,  and 
the  voices  of  the  singers  rang  exultant  from  ceiling  to 
floor,  and  then  floated  in  broken  echoes  out  into  the  village 
street,  far  away  sailed  the  melodious  wave  from  her  sweet 
voice  to  many  and  many  a  rustic  dwelling ;  and  they  who 
were  confined  at  home  of  sickness  well  knew  whose  happy 
yet  sad  notes  of  praise  were  those. 


THE   BLIND    GIRL.  249 

Carrie  was  much  interested  in  Miss  Jessie,  and  had 
been  from  the  beginning.  Whenever  she  went  there,  the 
girl  would  ask  to  put  her  hand  in  that  of  her  visitor,  as 
if  she  could  thus,  with  her  acutely-sensitive  organization, 
more  closely  and  quickly  taste  the  enjoyment  of  her  sym- 

•  pathies.  Her  remarks  were  always  characteristic  of  the 
most  perfect  simplicity  and  innocence  of  heart.  She  put 
many  questions  j  but  they  were  asked  so  gently,  and  with 
such  an  air  of  extreme  gratefulness  for  the  condescension 
of  her  who  patiently  listened,  and  in  a  tone  so  extremely 
pitiable  and  touching,  —  as  if  she  were  all  the  time  appeal 
ing  to  those  around  her  to  lift  her  out  of  the  dark  and 
dismal  depths  into  which  she  had  been  plunged,  —  that 
none  were  thoughtless  enough  to  answer  her  slightingly,  or 

„  in  any  other  mode  than  as  if  she  challenged  and  enjoyed 
their  warmest  love. 

She  never  complained.  She  never  gave  way  to  excla 
mations  of  sorrow,  that  this  heavy  visitation  was  hers. 
She  betrayed  no  impatience.  Every  day  witnessed  her 
continued  sweetness  of  spirit.  Her  soul  she  possessed  in 
calmness  and  peace. 

"  And  you  are  so  happy  always,"  said  Mrs.  Humphreys, 

£  one  day,  while  she  sat  at  her  side.  "  If  one  blind  has 
such  reason  to  enjoy  peace,  what  shall  we  say  for  those 
for  whose  eyes  the  world  offers  its  beautiful  pictures  every 
day?" 

"  I  try  to  be  contented,"  said  the  girl,  with  modesty. 
Mrs.  Gray  regarded  her  with  much  affection.    Every 
one  said  Mrs.  Gray  loved  her  already  like  a  daughter. 


250  OUR   PARISH* 

The  little  room  was  light  and  pleasant,  and  the  jasmines 
were  trained  to  the  low  windows  by  her  own  delicate  hand. 
It  was  a  charming  nest,  just  such  a  spot  as  one  would 
look  in  for  happiness. 

"  Doesn't  your  spirit  feel  sore  at  times,  Jessie  ?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Humphreys. 

"  Sore !  For  what  ?  Have  I  not  every  thing  I  need  ? 
Ought  I  to  have  more  ?  See  how  many  are  my  friends ; 
and  such  as  you,  too,  dear  Mrs.  Humphreys !  Does  my 
spirit  chafe?  O,  no  indeed!  I  hope  I  am  not  so  un 
grateful." 

"  Yet  you  would  see  the  world  if  you  could  ?  " 

"  O,  yes  ;  if  I  could  get  my  sight  again,  I  think  I  should 
be  so  much  happier.  But  that  cannot  be,  you  know.  Every 
one  has  his  burden,  Mrs.  Humphreys  ;  this  is  mine.  I  hope 
I  try  to  carry  it  as  humbly  as  I  should.  We  all  set  ex 
amples,  you  know." 

"  Such  resignation  is  the  best  evidence  of  a  heart  set 
right  with  God.  It  ought  to.  provoke  a  similar  disposition 
all  around  you." 

"  Jessie  is  not  peevish  at  all.  She  is  so  good  !  "  said 
the  thoughtful  Mrs.  Gray. 

"  I  am  most  sorry  that  I  cannot  look  at  her  face,  Mrs. 
Humphreys,"  said  Jessie.  "  She  loves  me  so  much  more 
than  I  deserve." 

The  woman  acknowledged  her  remark  by  a  grateful 
smile. 

"  How  can  one  help  loving  you,  Jessie,"  said  the  woman, 


THE   BLIND    GIRL.  251 

"  when  you  are  always  so  good  ?  We  all  love  gentle  peo 
ple  ;  and  I'm  very  sure  Miss  Jessie  is  one  of  that  sort." 

"I  sometimes  feel,"  returned  the  girl,  "that  afflictions 
like  these  are,  after  all,  but  blessings ;  for  they  make  us  so 
many  good  friends." 

"  And  they  teach  us,  Jessie,  above  all,"  added  Mrs. 
Humphreys,  "that  we  must  be  patient.  No  lesson  is 
learned  more  thoroughly  of  them  than  this  one  of  patience. 
And  we  then  know  where  our  help  lies.  We  learn  to  cast 
all  our  cares  on  God.  It  is  the  best  of  lessons ;  only  it 
should  be  thoroughly  learned." 

"  I  hope  I  am  patient,"  said  Jessie.  "  I  try  to  be.  I 
pray  every  day  that  I  may  not  forget  it,  even  for  a  single 
moment.  A  blind  person  has  so  much  to  think  of,  Mrs. 
"Humphreys.  Is  it  because  they  have  nothing  to  see  that 
their  thoughts  are  so  much  quicker  ?  " 

She  told  her  that,  by  the  shutting  in  of  the  mind  so  al 
most  completely  upon  itself,  it  must  necessarily  grow  more 
active.  It  would  have  fewer  objects  of  thought,  but  would 
possess  far  greater  powers  of  concentration. 

"  So  it  seems  to  me.  Sometimes  I  lie  awake  so  late 
nights,"  said  Jessie,  "and  I  cannot  get  asleep.  And  my 
thoughts  are  so  strange,  too  !  I  cannot  always  tell  if  they 
be  thoughts  ;  but  I  think  they  are  only  feelings.  Is  there 
a  difference,  Mrs.  Humphreys  ?  " 

The  latter  explained  it  to  her  in  as  clear  and  compre 
hensive  a  manner  as  she  could. 

"  I  go  back  in  my  mind,  too,  and  try  to  fix  it  in  my 


252  OUR  PARISH. 

memory  how  things  looked  once,  years  ago.  I  think  some 
times  I  know  exactly.  And  then  there  comes  a  blindness 
over  my  soul,  just  as  it  has  come  over  my  sight,  and  I  can 
see  nothing.  The  whole  world  looks  so  dark.  It  seems  to 
me  as  if  the  sun  was  blotted  out,  and  all  my  life  too.  It  is 
such  a  strange  feeling,  Mrs.  Humphreys.  Sometimes  I 
shudder  when  I  think  of  it." 

"  Blindness  must  give  one  far  different  sensations,  both 
mental  and  physical,  than  we  can  any  of  us  understand, 
except  by  suffering  in  the  condition  itself,"  was  the  reply. 
"  We  may  freely  sympathize  with  the  person  afflicted,  in* 
asmuch  as  he  or  she  feels  the  loss  of  what  we  are  enjoy 
ing;  but  we  cannot  truly  say  that  we  sympathize  with 
them  in  all  their  feelings,  those  most  secret  and  sacred.  I 
know  that  must  be  so." 

It  is  —  it  is,  Mrs.  Humphreys.     You  seem  to  under 
stand  what  my  deepest  feelings  are." 

"  Yet  I  do  not  pretend  to  yield  you  as  much  sympathy 
as  you  crave.  I  cannot ;  and,  indeed,  I  do  not  think  that 
any  one  can.  I  know  that  your  trials  must  be  great.  You 
must  be  truly  patient,  and  truly  a  Christian,  to  feel  per 
fectly  happy  under  such  a  heavy  affliction." 

"  O,  I  only  hope  that  I  am.  I  pray  continually  for  a 
better  heart.  I  hope  I  grow  better  every  day,  Mrs.  Hum 
phreys.  I  think  very  often  how  truly  my  case  is  like  the 
Christian's  whom  the  Bible  tells  to  enter  into  his  own 
closet,  and  commune  with  his  own  heart,  and  be  still.  I 
feel  as  if  I  were  all  the  time  in  my  closet,  with  nothing  but 


Kno 
u 

*•       star 


THE   BLIND    GIRL.  253 

my  own  heart  for  a  companion ;  and  in  the  deep  of  my 
darkness,  O,  how  still ! " 

So  thought  Mrs.  Humphreys  —  "  O,  how  still ! " 

"But  I  have  such  delicious  thoughts,  too,  sometimes," 
the  girl  went  on.  "  Some  people,  perhaps,  might  call  them 
fancies.  But  they  give  me  a  great  deal  of  happiness, 
much  more  than  I  can  tell  you." 

"  They  must,  no  doubt,"  said  her  friends. 

"Why,"  added  Mrs.  Gray,  who  had  listened  affection 
ately  to  every  syllable  uttered  by  her,  "  I  have  seen  her  sit 
for  more  than  an  hour  and  say  nothing  to  me ;  she  was 
doing  nothing  but  what  her  own  good  thoughts  gave  her  to 
do.  And  all  the  time  she  must  have  known  that  I  was  in 
the  room." 

"  I  can  feel  you  —  I  know  always  when  you  are  near, 
Mrs.  Gray,"  was  the  girl's  reply.  "  Even  if  you  do  not 
speak  to  me,  I  know  that  you  are  close  at  hand." 

"  How  strange  it  is  ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Gray. 

"  Some  sit  and  dream  when,  they  look  into  the  fire  coals, 
so  they  tell  me.  They  say  they  see  pictures  there  that  are 
so  beautiful.  But  I  have  no  hearthstone  for  my  heart. 
There  is  no  hearth  with  its  blazing  fire  for  me  to  look  into. 
I  can  look  down  only  into  my  own  heart,  and  see  the,  pic 
tures  there,  and  dream  over  them.  It  makes  me  very  sad, 
at  times ;  but  I  love  to  feel  such  a  kind  of  sadness  as  that. 
It  does  me  no  harm." 

§"If  it  is  not  tl^cause  of  discontent,"  said  Mrs.  Hum 
phreys 


254  OUR  PARISH. 

"  And  it  is  not.  I  know  it  is  not.  If  it  led  to  that,  I 
should  not  give  a  moment  to  such  thoughts.  But  it  does 
not.  I  think  such  dreams  are  almost  happiness  itself, 
sometimes,  dear  Mrs.  Humphreys.  But  I  try  not  to  be 
lost  altogether  in  them.  Life  is  too  practical  for  that." 

"  No,  Jessie,  you  should  not.  Our  souls  cannot  always 
live  in  dreams.  We  were  formed  with  active  influences, 
each  one  of  us  ;  and  merely  to  lose  ourselves  in  dreaminess 
is  to  throw  our  lives  away.  We  do  but  waste  them  then 
all  on  ourselves." 

These  conversations  with  Jessie  were  quite  frequent 
from  time  to  time,  and  they  afforded  Mrs.  Humphreys  a 
secret  pleasure.  It  tasked  her  own  well-equipped  intellect, 
in  a  measure,  to  be  interrogated  as  she  often  was  by  her, 
on  all  subjects,  and  in  every  variety  of  manner. 

Such  a  perfect  simplicity  of  life  as  the  widow  Gray  and 
Jessie  led  was  really  attractive.  It  presented  to  the  in 
terested  beholder  al]  the  whiteness  of  purity  itself.  Their 
nook  was  a  lowly  one,  altogether  out  of  the  reach  of  the 
winds  and  tempests  of  the  world ;  but  they  envied  no  others 
their  lot.  They  could  not  think  that  others  were  ever  hap 
pier  than  they. 

And  all  through  the  spring  and  summer  Jessie  trained 
her  jasmines  around  the  cottage  windows,  and  felt  her  slow 
and  hesitating  way  over  the  little  yard.  She  would  sit 
beneath  an  old  apple  tree  in  the  garden,  and  there  dream 
away  the  delicious  afternoons ;  in  the  spring,  smelling  the 
fragrance  of  the  ruddy  blossoms,  and  listening  to  the  drow- 


THE  BLIND   GIRL.  255 

•*  •    .    #' 

syhum  of  the  bees  among  them  —  in  the  early  autumn, 
starting  in  half  affright  as  the  round  fruit  bounced  down 
on  all  sides  of  her  seat  to  the  ground.  Sometimes  she  sang 
the  dear  old  hymns  she  had  sung  so  sweetly  for  years  in 
the  village  choir ;  and  the  women  and  the  children  who 
chanced  to  pass  by  stopped  a  little  way  off  to  feed  on  her 
ravishing  melodies. 

Mr.  Humphreys  and  his  wife  both  regarded  her  as  an 
entirely  superior  being,  little  assimilated  in  the  peculiar 
delicacy  of  her  feelings  with  those  around  her,  and  having 
very  much  that  but  few  minds  could  altogether  appreciate. 
Mr.  Humphreys  could  not  help  gazing  at  her  on  Sundays  ; 
and  he  often  said,  that  to  watch  her  face,  and  to  hear  her 
sing,  excited  his  soul  to  thoughts  and  emotions  of  more 
pure  and,  exalted  praise.  Her  gentleness  made  all  her 
friends  ;  but  her  condition  called  forth  their  pity.  And  as 
one  of  our  little  quiet  "village  she  thus  held  her  place,  using 
an  influence  altogether  distinct  and  individual  over  others, 
yet  cooperating  with  the  rest  iu  working  out  silently  the 
problem  of  our  lives. 

Some  even  said  she  was  an  angel  already ! 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

THINGS    IN   GENERAL. 

As  time  went  by,  even  to  our  quiet  little  parish  it  brought 
its  changes.  The  lowliest  are  never  forgotten  by  him 
when  he  regularly  distributes  his  favors. 

Not  that  notable  improvements  were  undertaken  and 
carried  through  by  the  simple  force  of  village  enterprise,  or 
that  unwonted  bustle  began  to  drive  out  all  the  rustic  spirit 
from  our  little  street,  or  that  the  people  all  deserted  their 
old-time  homes  with  the  sanguine  prospect  of  great  gains  at 
"the  west"  —  nothing  like  this.  It  is  all  but  a  quiet 
chronicle,  and  I  feel  even  my  own  slow  pen  equal  to  its 
proper  writing  down. 

In  the  first  place,  because  they  naturally  come  in  that 
number,  matters  at  Ingleside  progressed  peacefully  and 
happily.  The  loss  its  inmates  had  been  called  so  suddenly 
to  endure  had  by  no  means  left  its  mark  so  deeply  on  their 
hearts  that  they  refused  utterly  to  be  comforted ;  the  wound 
remained,  but  its  afflictive  soreness  had  been  removed; 
they  felt  all  the  strength  of  the  consolations  that  a  truly 

(256) 


THINGS   IN    GENERAL.  257 

Christian  belief  yielded  them,  and  in  humble  and  firm 
trust  on  their  Maker  could  freely  say,  "  Lord,  not  my 
will,  but  thine  be  done."  The  grief  had  wrought  with 
good  effect  upon  them  both,  and  they  praised  God  even  in 
his  severe  chastisements. 

In  time,  another   son  was   born   to  them.     Him  they 
^ 
named  Alfred,  in  memory  of  one  of  the  twins  of  which 

they  had  been  bereaved.  He  was  a  bright  and  promising 
babe,  and  they  hoped  he  would  live  to  become  an  active 
and  useful  worker  in  the  Master's  vineyard. 

And  afterwards  still  another  —  a  boy,  too.  And  they 
resolved  at  once  that  he  should  bear  the  name  of  the  other 
infant.  So  now  they  had  two  children  again,  and  two 
whose  names  were  Alfred  and  Arthur. 

In  watching  the  growth  and  development  of  children, 
whether  they  happen  to  be  our  own  or  not,  it  is  strange 
how  imperceptibly  time  slips  away.  If  we  set  down  de 
liberately  to  count  our  own  years,  and  to  watch  the  passage 
of  eveiy  sand  that  falls  through  the  glass,  the  feeling  is 
different.  The  events  that  crowd  along  our  way  are  bigger 
than  aught  else,  standing  out  by  the  roadside  like  mile 
stones.  But  in  looking  at  our  neighbors'  children,  who,  we 
say  to  them,  seem  to  have  come  up  like  mushrooms,  we 
suddenly  lose  sight  of  all  intermediate  events  and  circum 
stances,  and  our  eye  slips  backward  over  the  years  as  over 
a  smooth  plain,  without  a  single  mark  by  which  to  measure 
it.  We  say,  at  once,  "Who  could  think  time  ran  away 
so  rapidly  ?  " 

17 

* 


258  OUR   PARISH. 

And  it  was  just  in  this  kind  of  manner  that  people  were 
really  astonished  to  find  that  Mr.  Humphreys'  oldest  boy 
had  already  reached  five  years.  However  much  the 
measure  of  time  might  seem  to  them,  it  was  quite  a 
little  age  to  him.  The  trousers  and  jacket  were  put  on, 
and  the  row  of  bright  buttons  bedazzled  his  eyes  as  it  be 
dazzles  the  eyes  of  boys  every  where.  He  was  amiable  in, 
his  disposition,  and  loved  his  parents  tenderly.  A  nobler 
little  fellow  was  nowhere  to  be  found.  Most  parents  in 
their  fondness  would  have  idolized  him.  But  they  had 
already  learned  a  higher  lesson  than  that.  They  rather 
felt  these  two  new  gifts  to  be  fresh  responsibilities  from 
Heaven's  hand  intrusted  to  their  continual  watchfulness 
and  care. 

The  villagers  kept  steadily  about  their  business  from 
year  to  year,  excited  by  no  greater  affairs  than  a  very 
large  harvest,  or  a  very  small  one ;  talking  over  their  in 
ternal  interests  with  the  full  measure  of  deliberateness  usual 
among  such  quiet  bodies,  and  enjoying  in  their  moderate 
way  all  the  good  things  this  life  regularly  gave  them. 

Deacon  Burroughs's  family  were  getting  on  just  as  fast 
as  the  rest ;  the  younger  ones  crowding  steadily  along,  and 
the  old  ones  growing  still  older.  The  deacon  was  ever 
the  same  consistent  and  useful  Christian  ;  plying  his  earth 
ly  tasks  industriously,  but  more  industrious  still  with  those 
that  reached  forward  into  heaven.  .On  no  single  individ 
ual  could  Mr.  Humphreys  call  for  help  with  so  sure 
a  prospect  of  obtaining  it  just  when  wanted,  and  al- 


THINGS    IN    GENERAL.  259 

ways  without  stint.  Mrs.  Burroughs  was  disappointed. 
Every  body  —  so  it  is  said  —  has  his  one  great  disap 
pointment  in  this  life;  and  Mrs.  Burroughs  had  hers, 
Well,  and  what  could  it  be  ?  Why,  nothing  more  nor  less 
than  this :  she  had  counted  with  absolute  certainty  on 
Lucy's  being  the  minister's  wife  !  If  this  were  mere  scan 
dal  I  should  abhor  to  narrate  it ;  but  it  relates  intimately 
to  the  interests,  and  especially  to  the  history,  of  our  quiet 
parish.  Mrs.  Burroughs  did  not  storm  with  rage.  She 
did  not  confide  her  secret  trouble  to  another.  Better  if 
she  had,  perhaps ;  for  then  her  heart  might  finally  have 
rid  itself  of  the  "perilous  stuff."  But  she  suffered  her 
feelings  to  brood  over  it  more  than  she  should,  till  at  length 
it  came  to  assert  a  peculiar  position  in  her  actions,  exer 
cising  an  active,  though  morbid,  influence  in  matters  where 
she  received  credit  for  far  different  motives. 

But  Lucy,  however  much  she  may  have  at  first  listened 
to  her  mother  respecting  it,  appeared  to  shape  her  course 
quite  widely  of  any  such  reflections  now;  for  it  was  a 
pretty  much  settled  matter  in  Brookboro'  that  Lucy  Bur 
roughs  was  going  to  marry  Joseph  Bard  right  away.  Jo 
seph  was  Mr.  Bard's  eldest  child,  and  many  years  older 
than  the  rest.  He  had  been  quite  partial  to  Lucy  always  ; 
but  the  only  difficulty  with  him  seemed  to  be,  that  Lucy 
hardly  reciprocated  his  peculiar  feeling.  Nevertheless, 
time  is  said  to  work  wonders ;  and  it  finally  wrought  one 
here.  By  some  means  or  another  Lucy  was  converted 
over  to  Joseph's  side.  Was  it  from  some  lurking  feeling 


260  OUR   PARISH. 

of  disappointment  still  ?  Did  she  think  thus  to  show  what 
some  would  call  a  "  proper  resentment "  for  not  obtaining 
just  the  match  she  had  set  her  ambitious  heart  on?  O 
Lucy,  I  fear  for  you !  I  cannot  help  the  thought !  But 
better  for  a  nature  like  yours  to  unite  its  earthly  happiness 
with  Joseph  Bard  than  to  think  of  becoming  the  devoted, 
self-denying,  self-accusing,  laborious,  heroic  wife  of  the 
clergyman  !  Better  by  far,  Lucy,  for  both  you  and  him  ! 

And  Mr.  Israel  Bard  had  taken  Joseph  into  his  business 
with  him,  so  that  there  was  a  safe  and  certain  prospect  of 
his  stepping  exactly  into  his  father's  shoes  at  some  time. 
His  condition,  so  far  at  least  as  earthly  comforts  went,  was 
certainly  well  assured  as  a  safe  and  easy  one.  He  prom 
ised  to  make  a  respectable  trader  and  a  useful  member  of 
society.  Yes,  Lucy  would  really  get  a  good  husband.  Yet 
she  sometimes  secretly  confessed  to  herself  that  he  was 
hardly  the  one  her  ambition  had  been  hunting  after.  Lucy 
was  advancing  in  years,  though ;  and  if  she  meant  to  marry 
at  all,  she  must  improve  her  chance.  So  she  thought,  and 
so  her  mother  sometimes  more  than  hinted  to  her.  Very 
often  these  things  are  made  to  turn  on  the  slightest  con 
siderations  and  the  weakest  fears. 

Mr.  Sanger,  the  lawyer,  continued  the  practice  of  his 
profession  much  after  the  old  way.  He  was  a  proud 
man,  rather  overbearing  in  his  manner,  and  determined  to 
uphold  the  dignity  of  his  pursuit  against  the  claims  of  all 
other  pursuits  whatever.  He  went  about  but  little  into 
village  society,  and  took  no  further  interest  in  the  matters 


THINGS  IN   GENERAL.  261 

of  the  church  than  was  absolutely  necessary  to  sustain 
what  he  imagined  his  respectability.  Successful  as  he  had 
heretofore  been  in  his  practice,  he  still  continued  following 
up  those  little  causes  which  truly  highminded,  and,  above 
all,  respectable  lawyers  sedulously  avoid ;  so  that  his  name 
was  not  unfrequently  associated  with  cases  and  persons  that 
could  by  no  possibility  bring  to  it  increased  fame,  but  cer 
tainly  would  add  increased  dishonor.  But  for  this  no 
matter.  He  stood  on  his  own  feet,  so  he  said.  He  was 
abundantly  capable  of  sustaining  his  own  honor.  And 
some  of  the  poor  fellows  round  about,  who  had  at  sundry 
times  been  made  to  feel  the  gripe  of  his  power,  were  per 
verse  enough  to  say  that  he  certainly  could  sustain  it  all, 
and  feel  no  great  inconvenience  from  the  burden  either. 
But  that  is  nothing  but  scandal.  - 

Mr.  Sanger's  house  was  a  fine  one,  and  a  little  disposed, 
for  those  times,  to  stateliness.  He  had  no  children,  and 
had  never  had  any.  Mrs.  Sanger  rather  led  the  opinions 
of  the  village  folk,  so  far  as  certain  styles  and  fashions  of 
thinking  were  from  time  to  time  introduced,  and  was  ambi 
tious  of  the  preferment.  There  was  no  one  to  dispute  with 
her  successfully  for  the  office. 

Mr.  Upton  and  his  wife  were  always  the  very  best  of 
people  —  he  a  hard  worker  day  by  day,  and  she  keeping 
his  steady  industry  constant  company.  The  ring  from  his 
anvil  sounded  loud  and  shrill  over  that  part  of  the  village 
where  stood  his  low-roofed  shop ;  and  in  the  cold  winter 
nights  the  sparks  went  up  by  millions  through  his  little 


264,  OUR  PARISH. 

of  yarn,  to  make  the  children's  stockings,  and  now  a  cheese 
or  a  few  balls  of  their  choicest  butter,  or  a  pair  of  yellow- 
legged  chickens.  He  rarely  left  them  altogether  empty 
handed. 

Mr.  Johnson  was  as  liberal  as  any  of  them.  Of  his 
wife  he  engaged  all  his  butter  the  year  round;  and  the 
very  nicest  of  churning  it  was,  too.  He  was  always  inter 
ested  in  the  farming  matters  with  which  Mr.  Johnson  often 
regaled  him,  talking  as  freely  of  cattle,  and  pigs,  and 
poultry,  and  sheep  as  if  he  had  been  regularly  bred  to 
the  calling  himself.  Mr.  Johnson's  family,  too,  lived 
pleasantly;  and  it  was  a  real  pleasure  for  Mr.  Hum 
phreys,  occasionally,  to  carry  his  wife  and  little  ones  over 
there  to  pass  the  afternoon,  and  take  tea  in  their  hearty 
and  sociable  way. 

There  was  another  body  in  Brookboro'  who  should, 
properly,  have  been  mentioned  with  more  particularity 
before ;  and  that  was  Old  Nance,  —  as  every  one  called 
her,  —  the  negress  and  washerwoman.  It  was  a  little 
strange,  but  she  was  the  only  colored  person  in  the  place. 
She  made  herself  especially  useful  to  Mrs.  Humphreys  by 
her  washing  and  scrubbing  services ;  and  whenever  the 
walls  of  the  parsonage  needed  a  fresh  and  clean  coat  of 
whitewash,  it  was  well  known  that  there  was  no  more  skil 
ful  hand  at  such  work  than  old  Nancy  Rivers.  She  lived 
alone,  and  seemed  to  feel  alone.  Her  words  were  few 
indeed ;  but  those  few  were  quite  sufficient  to  betray  the 
peace  that  reigned  in  her  simple  and  honest  old  heart. 


THINGS   IN   GENERAL.  265 


Sometimes  she  had  long  talks  with  Mr.  Humphreys ;  and 
she  always  said  she  felt  happier  afterwards. 

With  the  Buss  family  time  went  smoothly  enough,  though 
Mr.  Buss  said  his  work  was  any  thing  but  smooth  always. 
He  labored  on  his  farm  with  all  his  strength,  early  and  late 
following  his  work,  ambitious  of  nothing  so  much  as  the 
accumulation  of  a  little  property,  and  ever  eager  for  a  fray 
in  the  way  of  discussion.  The  old  predilection  seemed  to 
grow  stronger  with  every  year. 

And  Miss  Buss  got  on  as  bravely  as  ever,  too  —  always 
ready  where  her  presence  was  expected,  and  never  behind 
hand  with  her  active  interest  and  sympathies.  A  malicious 
tongue  might  have  branded  her  as  a  gossip.  It  would, 
however,  be  as  thoughtless  as  malicious.  As  for  designing 
deliberately  to  put  the  various  intelligence  her  industry 
gathered  up  into  a  form  in  which  it  could  most  damage  the 
character  or  wound  the  feelings  of  others,  I  really  think  it 
was  farthest  from  the  kindly-disposed  heart  of  Miss  Buss 
in  the  world.  She  liked  to  see  and  hear  what  was  going 
on  as  well  as  any  one ;  and,  to  confess  a  little  more,  she  un 
doubtedly  was  moved  with  an  ambition  to  spread  what  little 
information  her  own  industry  had  accumulated.  This  was 
all.  Nothing. more  could  be  charged  against  her  than  a 
perfect  freedom  from  all  selfishness  and  guile.  If  she  could 
command  the  attention  of  others  by  her  narratives,  her 
whole  end  and  aim  was  reached. 

Occasionally  Mr.  Humphreys  exchanged  pulpits  with  his 
brethren  in  the  adjoining  towns  ;  and  it  was  somewhat  fre- 


264,  OUR  PARISH. 

of  yarn,  to  make  the  children's  stockings,  and  now  a  cheese 
or  a  few  balls  of  their  choicest  butter,  or  a  pair  of  yellow- 
legged  chickens.  He  rarely  left  them  altogether  empty 
handed. 

Mr.  Johnson  was  as  liberal  as  any  of  them.  Of  his 
wife  he  engaged  all  his  butter  the  year  round;  and  the 
very  nicest  of  churning  it  was,  too.  He  was  always  inter 
ested  in  the  farming  matters  with  which  Mr.  Johnson  often 
regaled  him,  talking  as  freely  of  cattle,  and  pigs,  and 
poultry,  and  sheep  as  if  he  had  been  regularly  bred  to 
the  calling  himself.  Mr.  Johnson's  family,  too,  lived 
pleasantly;  and  it  was  a  real  pleasure  for  Mr.  Hum 
phreys,  occasionally,  to  carry  his  wife  and  little  ones  over 
there  to  pass  the  afternoon,  and  take  tea  in  their  hearty 
and  sociable  way. 

There  was  another  body  in  Brookboro'  who  should, 
properly,  have  been  mentioned  with  more  particularity 
before;  and  that  was  Old  Nance,  —  as  every  one  called 
her,  —  the  negress  and  washerwoman.  It  was  a  little 
strange,  but  she  was  the  only  colored  person  in  the  place. 
She  made  herself  especially  useful  to  Mrs.  Humphreys  by 
her  washing  and  scrubbing  services ;  and  whenever  the 
walls  of  the  parsonage  needed  a  fresh  and  clean  coat  of 
whitewash,  it  was  well  known  that  there  was  no  more  skil 
ful  hand  at  such  work  than  old  Nancy  Rivers.  She  lived 
alone,  and  seemed  to  feel  alone.  Her  words  were  few 
indeed ;  but  those  few  were  quite  sufficient  to  betray  the 
peace  that  reigned  in  her  simple  and  honest  old  heart. 


THINGS   IN    GENERAL.  265 

Sometimes  she  had  long  talks  with  Mr.  Humphreys ;  and 
she  always  said  she  felt  happier  afterwards. 

With  the  Buss  family  time  went  smoothly  enough,  though 
Mr.  Buss  said  his  work  was  any  thing  but  smooth  always. 
He  labored  on  his  farm  with  all  his  strength,  early  and  late 
following  his  work,  ambitious  of  nothing  so  much  as  the 
accumulation  of  a  little  property,  and  ever  -eager  for  a  fray 
in  the  way  of  discussion.  The  old  predilection  seemed  to 
grow  stronger  with  every  year. 

And  Miss  Buss  got  on  as  bravely  as  ever,  too  —  always 
ready  where  her  presence  was  expected,  and  never  behind 
hand  with  her  active  interest  and  sympathies.  A  malicious 
tongue  might  have  branded  her  as  a  gossip.  It  would, 
however,  be  as  thoughtless  as  malicious.  As  for  designing 
deliberately  to  put  the  various  intelligence  her  industry 
gathered  up  into  a  form  in  which  it  could  most  damage  the 
character  or  wound  the  feelings  of  others,  I  really  think  it 
was  farthest  from  the  kindly-disposed  heart  of  Miss  Buss 
in  the  world.  She  liked  to  see  and  hear  what  was  going 
on  as  well  as  any  one ;  and,  to  confess  a  little  more,  she  un 
doubtedly  was  moved  with  an  ambition  to  spread  what  little 
information  her  own  industry  had  accumulated.  This  was 
all.  Nothing  .more  could  be  charged  against  her  than  a 
perfect  freedom  from  all  selfishness  and  guile.  If  she  could 
command  the  attention  of  others  by  her  narratives,  her 
whole  end  and  aim  was  reached. 

Occasionally  Mr.  Humphreys  exchanged  pulpits  with  his 
brethren  in  the  adjoining  towns  ;  and  it  was  somewhat  fre- 


266  OUR  PARISH. 

quently  that  lie  carried  his  wife  over  to  Grassville  to  visit 
her  old  friend  and  schoolmate,  who  still  continued  to  live 
there.  Those  reunions  between  the  friends,  —  how  full 
of  bliss  were  they  to  them  both  !  They  freely  compared 
their  experience,  and  learned  each  of  the  other  much  that 
would  help  them  happily  forward  in  the  pathway  of  life. 

And  quietly  the  affairs  of  Brookboro'  progressed  from 
year  to  year  —  peace  and  plenty  within  the  old  town  bor 
ders,  the  people  leading  exemplary  and  useful  lives,  and 
their  devoted  pastor  working  with  continued  and  unfalter 
ing  energy  to  save,  through  Christ,  every  member  of  his 
little  flock,  that  not  one  might  be  lost  in  that  last  day. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

THE  DEATH  OF  A  FATHER. 

IN  all  the  time  that  Mr.  Humphreys  had  continued  an 
exile  from  the  paternal  roof,  he  had  not  heard  a  word 
directly  from  home.  All  correspondence  with  his  father 
was  finally  cut  off.  Once,  indeed,  he  had  addressed  his 
parent  a  letter,  full  of  affectionate  anxiety  and  expressing 
the  most  constant  and  tender  interest  in  his  welfare,  and 
earnestly  uttering  the  hope  that  every  former  cause  of 
alienation  was  at  an  end.  But  to  this  letter  no  response 
ever  came.  The  proud  father  was  nursing  his  pride  still. 
His  haughty  nature  would  not  bend.  His  soul  was  not 
accustomed  to  yield  a  tittle  to  any  one.  Affection  was  but 
as  chaff,  blown  away  by  the  strong  winds  of  his  pride. 

It  wore  on  the  spirits  of  the  faithful  son  perceptibly. 
Yet,  save  to  his  devoted  wife,  he  had  never  breathed  the 
secret  that  so  greatly  troubled  him.  No  other  knew  the 
canker  that  corroded  his  happiness  day  by  day.  His  mem 
ory  continually  carried  him  back  to  those  times  of  infantile 
innocence  when  the  love  of  his  father  was  as  certain  and 

(267) 


268  OUR   PARISH. 

undivided  as  the  love  of  a  father  could  be,  and  no  worldly 
cloud  came  in  between  it  and  him  to  eclipse  even  ever  so 
little  of  his  happiness.  He  grew  melancholy  sometimes 
in  living  over  again  the  days  that  were  only  sunshine,  and 
in  contrasting  them  with  the  arid  waste  that  stretched  out 
between  himself  now  and  himself  then.  To  be  discarded 
of  a  parent  is  truly  no  light  thing,  and  the  more  particu 
larly  when  one  feels  that  his  own  duty  has  been  fully  done, 
and  still  his  efforts  prove  unavailing. 

Take  this  lesson  to  your  hearts,  ye  proud  fathers  and 
haughty  mothers,  whose  blood  becomes  black  for  the  worldly 
passion  that  scorches  it  in  your  veins,  that  there  will  cer 
tainly  come,  sooner  or  later,  a  bitter,  bitter  reckoning  with 
your  consciences ;  that,  whether  the  delay  is  much  or  little, 
it  will  be  terminated  at  the  last.  Your  own  hearts  will 
themselves  plead  earnestly  and  continually  for  the  judg 
ment.  Your  own  natures  will  at  length  begin  morbidly 
to  crave  the  very  punishment  they  feel  to  have  been  put 
off  already  too  long. 

From  the  clergyman  at  Briarfield  Mr.  Humphreys  had 
often  received  intelligence  of  interest  about  home,  and  their 
correspondence  grew  frequent  and  regular.  This  relieved 
his  spirit  in  a  measure,  for  he  could  at  least  hear  from  the 
dear  old  home  spot. 

Matters  had  latterly  begun  to  take  quite  a  strange  and 
unexpected  turn  at  Briarfield.  The  younger  brother,  James, 
had  proved  himself  altogether  a  different  man  from  what 
was  to  have  been  expected  of  him.  Discovering  the  exact 


THE   DEATH   OF  A  FATHER.  269 

relations  existing  in  the  family  at  the  period  of  William's 
departure,  he  devoted  himself  for  some  time  to  nothing  but 
flattering  and  feeding  the  prejudices  of  his  father ;  and  it 
was  not  a  very  long  time,  either,  before  he  had  succeeded 
in  inflaming  them  to  a  pitch  at  which  he  felt  it  safe  to  ask 
for  himself  just  what  favors  he  most  desired. 

One  thing  after  another  was  allowed  him.  One  and  a 
second  point  were  yielded  to  him.  Slowly  he  worked  his 
hand  along  to  the  handle  of  the  whip,  which,  when  he 
should  finally  get  hold  of  it,  he  meant  to  use  for  another 
purpose  than  merely  that  of  asserting  his  own  importance 
and  power. 

As  an  almost  natural  result,  he  was  speedily  acknowl 
edged  the  leader  and  ruler  in  the  household.  The  same 
father  who  had  so  tyrannously  decreed  in  the  case  of  one 
son,  seemed  to  have  no  will  or  purpose  whatever  in  that 
of  the  other.  "Whatever  he  expressed  as  his  wish,  he 
knew  was  quite  equal  to  a  law  already.  He  long  ago 
learned  to  scout  influence,  authority,  or  even  advice,  and 
trusted  to  nothing  but  his  own  headstrong  impulses. 

Finally  he  left  home ;  the  village  was  too  circumscribed 
for  the  lengthening  radius  of  his  operations.  He  went  to 
the  city.  A  brief  career  was  long  enough  to  plunge  him 
inextricably  in  debt.  From  this  his  father  relieved  him. 
But  the  relief  proved  only  temporary.  The  whole  ex 
periment  had  to  be  tried  over  again,  this  time  on  a  rather 
more  extended  scale.  The  father  was  by  no  means  back 
ward,  either.  The  memory  of  his  cruel  treatment  of  his 


270  OUR  PARISH. 

eldest  son  might  have  been  the  means  of  goading  him  into 
temporary  madness  in  the  management  of  his  business. 
A  strange  power  seemed  to  possess  him  ever  since  the 
event  of  his  eldest  son's  departure.  He  was  not  wholly 
himself,  and  did  not  always  refer  back  his  actions  to  a  rea 
sonable  and  considerate  class  of  motives. 

The  blow  came  at  last.  It  had  been  delayed  for  some 
time,  but  could  not  always  be  kept  ^back.  Mr.  Humphreys 
became  an  indorser  for  his  son  James  for  every  dollar  he 
was  worth  ;  and  every  dollar  he  was  worth  was  gone  ! 

Worse  than  this,  the  reprobate  son  had  fled,  leaving 
his  now  impoverished  father  to  fight  the  battle  all  over 
again  with  poverty,  and  either  rise  or  fall  as  fate  or  fortune 
might  determine. 

A  miserable  character  was  his  ;  respected  of  none,  un 
willing  to  return  home  again  among  the  friends  and  com 
panions  of  his  youth,  an  outcast  and  an  exile,  he  hardly 
knew  or  cared  whither  he  turned  his  steps  next. 

The  Briarfield  clergyman  was  about  writing  all  this  in 
telligence  to  the  one  whom  he  knew  most  interested  in  hear 
ing  it,  when  suddenly  Mr.  Humphreys,  senior,  gave  entirely 
up,  and  took  to  his  bed.  Spirits,  health,  ambition,  every 
thing  failed  him. 

In  this  condition  of  body  and  mind  he  sent  immediately 
for  the  clergyman,  requesting  him  to  write  forthwith  to  his 
son  in  Brookboro'.  He  desired  nothing  so  much  as  his 
presence  at  his  bedside.  The  clergyman,  therefore,  added 
the  request  to  the  letter  he  had  just  prepared,  and  de- 


THE   DEATH    OF   A  FATHER.  271 

spatched  it  by  the  earliest  post.  This  letter  found  the 
young  clergyman  in  Brookboro'  as  depressed  about  his 
father's  alienation  as  ever.  When,  however,  he  fully 
gathered  the  astounding  import  of  the  intelligence,  costly 
as  the  sacrifice  had  been  that  produced  so  great  a  change 
in  his  father's  feelings,  he  deemed  it  of  less  importance  than 
the  continued  alienation  itself;  and  he  could  not  help  se 
cretly  rejoicing  that  even  so  untoward  an  event  as  this  might 
otherwise  seem  had  been  the  means  of  levelling  the  olden 
prejudices  and  letting  in  the  sunshine  of  affection  again. 

He  started  off  at  the  earliest  moment  for  Briarfield, 
alone.  "While  he  was  gone,  it  was  arranged  that  Mrs. 
Hawley  should  come  over  from  Grassville  and  stay  at  In- 
gleside  parsonage  with  her  old  friend. 

It  was  an  autumn  day  when  he  entered  Briarfield  again, 
that  place  where  his  early  and  purest  affections  centred, 
and  rode  in  the  direction  of  his  father's  house.  The  old 
homestead  !  —  how  dearly  he  loved  it  still !  —  the  spot 
where  his  heart  first  learned  attachment,  where  his  mind 
first  opened  its  eyes,  where  a  mother  had  tenderly  educated 
him  from  earliest  infancy,  where  he  had  seen  that  mother 
die !  How  could  he  but  feel  the  shadows  of  melancholy 
creeping  over  his  heart  as  he  first  drew  in  sight  of  that 
endeared  place,  its  roofs  and  windows  looking  familiarly  to 
his  eye,  the  old  trees  waving  their  arms  as  of  yore,  the 
yard  and  all  the  grounds  the  same  as  ever  to  his  vision  — 
but  all  else  so  changed  !  It  was  rather  a  saddening  hour, 
too,  being  the  time  of  twilight,  and  outward  objects  wore  a 
sombre  hue. 


272  OUR  PARISH. 

He  walked  rapidly  up  the  pathway,  and  went  in  without 
a  knock.  The  place  he  knew  well  enough  ;  he  needed  no 
guide  there.  Along  the  hall  he  directed  his  steps,  up  the 
stairs,  along  the  entry  to  the  door  of  his  father's  chamber. 
Must  he  not  be  lying  in  the  old  room  ?  He  softlj  opened 
the  door  —  a  mere  crack  —  and  peered  in.  No  one  was 
in  the  apartment,  so  far  as  he  could  see.  He  opened  the 
door  still  wider ;  there  Was  the  old,  high-canopied  bedstead 
there  ;  a  wasted  form  lay  on  the  bed.  He  rushed  in,  and 
stood  over  his  father. 

While  he  stood  in  silence  and  gazed  at  the  altered  face 
of  his  parent,  the  tears  streaming  from  his  eyes  as  his 
thoughts  began  to  marshal  the  olden  memories  again  before 
him,  the  sick  man  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  straight  into 
those  of  his  long-banished  son. 

"  My  father  !  My  son  ! "  were  simultaneous  expres 
sions  on  the  part  of  both.  William  bent  down  and  em 
braced  the  now  broken-hearted  old  man  with  the  warmest 
affection. 

"  Father,"  said  he,  "I  thank  you  for  sending  for  me.  I 
am  so  much  the  happier  for  seeing  you  at  this  time,  when 
you  must  know  that  my  motives  can  be  only  true  ones." 

"My  son  —  my  son!"  exclaimed  the  parent,  speaking 
with  much  difficulty,  and  reaching  out  his  hand  for  the 
pressure  of  his  dutiful  child,  "  I  have  done  a  wrong  thing 
—  a  very  wrong  thing  !  I  don't  know  what  influenced  me 
to  do  as  I  did.  I  was  not  always  myself;  I  could  not  be 
always  myself."  A  pause.  "  I  hope  you  can  forgive  me, 
William!" 


•-*  ; 

. 
THE   DEATH   OF  A   FATHER.  273 

"  Bear  father,  do  not  lay  that  to  heart  too  much.  It  is 
all  past  DOW.  Do  you  think  I  could  treasure  that  up  against 
you  ?  O,  no,  my  father !  I  have  ever  loved  you.  I  knew 
you  did  not  wish  me  the  least  wrong  —  I  knew  you  could 
not  wish  me  any  wrong.  I  felt  that  all  would  be  explained 
at  some  future  time." 

"  Yes,  and  I  was  putting  off  that  time  so  long,  William, 
that  God  in  his  judgment  saw  fit  to  hasten  it  for  me.  Do 
you  know  what  has  happened  ?  " 

«  All—  all." 

"  Then  I  need  not  repeat  it  again  to  you.  But  there  is 
still  another  thought  that  troubles  me.  My  property  is 
gone  —  the  whole  of  it." 

"Lay  not  up  for  yourself  treasures  on  earth,  father. 
They  are  so  uncertain.  We  cannot  depend  upon  them  for 
so  much  as  a  day." 

"But  —  but,  my  son,  what  injustice  am  I  not  doing  you? 
I  cannot  leave  you  a  dollar !  All  is  gone  ! " 

"  And  why  need  your  mind  be  troubled  about  that,  if 
mine  is  not?  Believe  me,  dear  father,  the  riches  of  this 
world  are  the  least  of  my  care.  They  are  essential  only  to 
provision  for  the  wants  of  the  body.  They  cannot  insure 
us  happiness.  No,  father,  long  ago  did  I  give  up  all  such 
thoughts.  I  beg  you  not  to  burden  your  mind  with  a  single 
one  of  that  character  for  me.  You  have  other  things,  far 
more  important  than  this,  to  think  of." 

"  Ah,  yes  —  yes  !  far,  far  more  important !  That  I  have. 
But  who  can  direct  me  ?  My  son,  I  am  blind.  I  am  grep- 
18 


OUR   PARISH. 


ing  my  way  about.  My  feet  stumble.  Can  any  one  help 
me  ?  Can  any  one  show  me  the  way  ?  " 

He  spoke  this  in  a  tone  so  entirely  different  from  any 
hitherto  usual  with  him,  that  it  startled  his  son  as  it  fell  on 
his  ear. 

"  '  Come  unto  me,  all  ye  that  labor  and  are  heavy  laden, 
and  I  will  give  you  rest  !  '  Christ  calls  you,  dear  father, 
in  words  like  these.  Is  there  any  doubt  where  you  are  to 
go,  then  ?  " 

"Ah,  but  this  heart  —  this  sinful  heart,  now  slowly, 
slowly  breaking  !  It  is  too  old  in  rebellion.  He  will  not 
accept  it,  though  I  should  lay  it  at  his  feet.  No  —  no  — 
no  !  it  is  too  late,  William  —  too  late  !  O,  how  those  words 
sound  in  my  ears  !  How  did  I  ever  know,  my  son,  that 
with  me  their  lightest  accents  would  be  so  terrible  ?  Your 
dear  mother  —  O,  how  much  she  labored  for  us  'all  !  —  not 
more  for  my  children  than  for  myself.  She  had  her  heart 
always  in  the  work.  I  wish  I  could  have  taken  the  right 
views  of  life  she  did  ;  I  should  be  so  much  happier  now  ; 
we  should  all  be  so  much  happier.  But  see  what  a  change  ! 
—  what  a  wicked  thing  it  is  !  And  what  do  you  think  has 
brought  it  all  about,  William  ?" 

The  son  made  no  reply. 

"  Remorse  !  remorse  !  O,  remorse  !  "  cried  he,  suddenly  ; 
"myself  —  it  was  only  myself,  who  has  done  it  all!  Is 
there  any  help  for  one  like  me  ?  Can  /  be  saved  ?  Can 
one  who  has  thrown  his  life  away  as  I  have  come  into  the 
fold  at  last  ?  O,  no,  no  !  —  it  is  impossible  —  impossible  ! 
William,  my  dear  son,  what  shall  I  do." 


THE  DEATH   OP  A  FATHER.  275 

"  Cast  yourself  entirely  into  the  arms  of  your  Savior.  He 
^will  save  all  who  come  unto  him,  to  the  very  last.  His  is 
such  a  salvation  as  men  have  not  for  one  another.  No 
arm  is  so  strong  to  relieve  as  his.  No  bosom  is  so  full  of 
tender  mercy  and  compassion.  He  is  ever  ready  for  us  all ; 
and  not  one  will  be  finally  cast  out  that  comes  to  him  in 
submission.  Father,  can  you  not  call  on  your  Savior  in  a 
time  of  need  ?  Have  you  no  faith  in  your  heart  ?  Can 
you  not  humble  yourself  like  a  little  child,  and  sue  to  him 
for  the  true  grace  that  will  make  you  one  of  his  children  ?  " 

"  Do  you  counsel  me  thus,  my  son  ?  You,  whom  I  have 
cast  out  from  my  house,  from  my  very  sight  ?  —  whom  I 
rejected  as  unworthy  of  your  haughty  father,  while  the  one 
I  cherished  so  foolishly  deserts  me  in  the  hour  of  trial  ? 
O,  what  punishments  does  not  Heaven  have  in  store  for 
wrong  doers  1  Your  very  kindness  chastises  me  more  than 
your  deadliest  hatred  could.  I  cannot  bear  to  hear  you 
speak  so  to  me.  Your  words  are  like  two-edged  swords. 
They  stab  my  heart  at  every  syllable.  Yet  I  deserve  it 
all  —  I  deserve  it  all.  O  that  the  folly  of  my  course  did 
not  make  itself  apparent  before  !  Wretched  —  wretched 
man  that  I  am  ! " 

"  Father,  there  is  hope  for  all,  and  there  is  room  for  all. 
/  No  nature  so  far  astray  that  Christ's  love  cannot  draw  it 
back  again. I  Do  you  ever  pray,  father?" 

"  Pray !  I  pray !  A  man  whose  heart,  for  so  many 
years,  has  been  all  choked  with  pride,  —  such  a  man 
pray!" 


276  OUR  PARISH. 

"  Do  you  not  think  that  your  prayers  will  be  heard  ? 
Has  Christ  refused  to  listen  to  one  who  comes  to  him  hum 
bly  and  trustfully  ?  Has  he  not  directly  said  that  a  contrite 
heart  he  does  not  despise  ?  Father,  do  not  entertain  these 
wrong  views  any  longer.  Try  to  compose  your  heart  to 
peace.  Your  thoughts  will  thus  be  the  more  satisfying  in 
this  hour." 

"  O,  if  I  only  could  compose  myself !  If  I  only  could  ! 
But  it  is  too  late.  Fatal  words  —  too  late  !  " 

The  son  knelt  down  by  the  bedside,  without  further 
words,  and  offered  prayer. 

Instantly  the  father  closed  his  eyes,  threw  back  his  head 
upon  the  pillow,  clasped  together  his  emaciated  hands,  and 
joined  in  the  petition. 

It  would  baffle  human  skill  or  human  power  to  describe 
the  fearful  conflict  that  raged  at  that  moment  in  the  old 
man's  breast;  to  tell  how  fear  went  up,  and  hope  went 
down;  how  the  dark  shadows,  black  with  their  brooding 
terrors,  trailed  over  the  surface  of  his  thoughts,  beclouding 
his  whole  existence,  and  then  bright  glimpses  - —  often 
nothing  more  than  glimpses  —  threw  in  their  dancing  and 
irregular  light  between  the  crevices  made  in  the  gloom ; 
how  the  stars  stood  forth  in  his  heaven,  and  then  suddenly 
faded  away  ;  how  his  soul  struggled  with  all  these  surging 
waves  of  fear,  crying  aloud  in  its  helplessness  for  relief, 
and  then  felt  that  no  hand  was  stretched  out  to  save,  and 
no  arm  was  nigh  for  it  to  rest  upon.  All  through  that 
prayer  was  the  struggle  continued.  It  racked  his  soul  to 


THE   DEATH    OF   A   FATHER.  277 

its  very  centre.  The  earth,  many  a  time,  receded  from  his 
vision  with  all  its  toys  and  tinselry.  The  false  coverings 
were  suddenly  stripped  off.  Every  thing  stood  out  in  its 
true  size  and  position.  And  if  now  he  sighed,  and  now  he 
despaired,  —  now  hoped,  and  now  gave  up  his  last  hold  on 
all  he  felt  was  lost,  —  it  is  no  pen  guided  by  human  hand 
that  could  depict  the  agony  of  remorse  that  burned  its 
way  through  the  very  marrow  of  his  thoughts,  or  paint  the 
colors  that  alternately  appeared  and  disappeared  over  the 
heaven  of  his  beclouded  vision. 

The  son  ceased,  and,  rising  to  his  feet  again,  took  his 
father's  hand  in  his  own. 

He  began,  in  low  and  affectionate  tones,  trying  to  soothe 
the  tempest  that  fear  and  remorse  had  raised.  He  repeat 
ed  the  declarations  of  Jesus  for  those  who  were  ready  and 
willing  to  accept  the  free  salvation  he  offered,  and  become 
members  of  his  faithful  flock  that  could  never  stray  from 
his  fold.  All  the  consolations  the  Bible  offered  were  laid 
before  him.  All  its  many  promises  were  recounted.  The 
hope  of  the  sinner  was  described  as  being  the  same  hope 
by  which  the  Christian  lived  and  drew  his  heart's  sus 
tenance. 

His  words  had  an  evident  effect  on  the  father.  When 
at  last  he  stopped  talking,  he  found  himself  very  much 
prostrated  from  the  unnatural  and  long-continued  excite 
ment.  A  servant  came  in,  ushering  the  doctor ;  and  William 
met  an  old  friend  again,  after  many  years'  absence. 

Leaving  his  father,  who  had  now  begun  to  doze,  in  the 


278  OUR  PARISH. 

care  of  the  village  physician,  he  hurried  down  stairs  himself 
to  take  refreshments  after  such  extended  exertion.  The  old 
family  servant  was  still  there,  the  same  who  had  waited  on 
him  in  boyhood.  Nothing  seemed  changed,  only  there 
reigned  a  stillness  over  the  house  that,  at  odd  moments, 
forced  itself  upon  his  sensibilities  as  something  almost 
sepulchral.  The  voice  of  his  sainted  mother  still  seemed 
to  echo  along  the  hall.  The  laugh  of  his  more  boisterous 
brother  still  rang  along  the  passages.  And  then,  when  it 
came  over  him  that  this  was  but  a  delusion,  he  wept  from 
the  excitement  of  his  deepest  and  strongest  feelings. 

It  was  very  late  when  he  finally  left  the  bedside  of  his 
father,  and  all  that  precious  time  had  been  jealously  im 
proved,  too.  The  parent  seemed  to  have  a  prognostication 
that  that  was  to  be  his  last  night  on  earth,  and  told  his 
son  so  plainly.  William  labored  to  banish  such  unprofita 
ble  thoughts  from  his  mind,  telling  him  that  we  ought  all 
of  us  to  be  ready  to  take  our  departure  in  God's  good 
time,  whenever  it  might  come.  He  was  left  alone  with  his 
father  again,  and  prayed  with  him  once  more.  The  poor 
man  said  he  felt  happier  after  it,  and  thanked  his  son  with 
every  grateful  expression  he  could  command. 

When  he  came  to  take  him  by  the  hand  and  to  bid  him 
"  good  night,"  he  could  not  help  saying,  in  a  sunken  and 
terribly  distinct  tone,  — 

"  This  is  my  last  night  here  —  I  know  it,  I  feel  it.  God 
have  mercy  on  me  at  the  last ! " 

The  expression-  of  his  eyes  was  not  by  any  means  alto- 


THE   DEATH    OF  A   FATHER.  279 

gether  natural  as  the  saddened  son  turned  •  to  retire  to  his 
own  apartment.  There  was  a  sort  of  wildness  in  it  that 
betrayed  the  fierce  working  of  his  thoughts.  The  recol 
lection  of  it  ever  after  impressed  the  son's  heart  deeply. 

The  remainder  of  the  night  wore  away  quietly.  The . 
watchers  remained  at  their  post  in  the  sick  chamber,  ready 
to  minister  at  any  moment  to  the  wants  of  the  dying  man. 
The  house  was  silent  as  a  sepulchre.  Occasionally  the 
baying  of  a  village  dog  broke  on  the  still  air  without,  and 
then  all  became  quiet  again. 

Night  is  solemn  in  itself ;  but  night  in  a  sick  room,  — 
the  watch  steadily  ticking  till  its  sounds  pulsate  almost  like 
the  striking  of  a  clock,  —  the  room  made  gloomy  by  the 
subdued  light,  shaded  to  the  very  verge  of  darkness,  —  a 
collection  of  cups  and  vials  upon  the  table  and  the  little 
stand,  —  every  word  spoken  in  a  whisper,  that  echoes  in 
the  heart  far  louder  than  a  cry,  —  every  step  taken  so 
carefully,  as  if  the  slightest  jar  might  cause  untold  distress, 
—  this  is  what  impresses  deeply  the  stoutest  heart,  and 
sometimes  appalls  the  tenderer  sensibilities. 

It  was  somewhat  late  in  the  morning  when  William 
awoke ;  and,  springing  from  his  bed,  he  hurried  on  a  few 
articles  of  clothing  and  went  to  his  father's  door.  They 
had  suffered  him  to  sleep  as  long  as  he  would,  to  get  rest 
from  his  great  fatigue  and  excitement ;  and  the  sun,  there 
fore,  had  been  up  a  considerable  time  when  he  put  his 
hand  on  the  latch  of  the  door  of  the  sick  room  and 

pushed  in. 

*  * 


280  OUR   PARISH. 

The  first  sight  he  saw  startled  him  —  the  window  was 
open ! 

He  looked  quickly  around  the  room.  No  one  was  there 
—  the  place  was  deserted. 

This  struck  him  as  very  strange.  The  whole  truth  did 
not  immediately  dawn  on  him.  The  opened  window  might 
have  told  him  all. 

He  took  hasty  strides  across  the  floor  to  the  bedside, 
The  sight  there  struck  him  dumb. 

The  upturned  face,  —  the  closed  and  sunken  eyes, — 
the  sharp  outline  of  the  features,  —  the  terrible  silence  and 
calm,  —  these  told  him  of  the  death  of  his  father  ! 

He  bowed  his  head,  stricken  with  the  great  load  of 
grief  that  pressed  upon  his  heart. 

The  old  man's  fears  proved  true.  It  was  his  last  night 
on  earth  ;  and  he  had  gone  from  the  place  that  had  known 
him  so  long,  but  which  now  would  know  him  no  more 
forever. 

Mr.  Humphreys  was  an  orphan.  But,  in  reality,  his 
orphanage  had  begun  when  he  caught  the  dying  blessing 
of  his  mother. 


CHAPTER  XXIY. 

OUR   SINGING    SCHOOL. 

BROOKBORO'  would  never  have  been  Brookboro*  with 
out  its  singing  school.  No,  indeed.  That  was  one  of  its 
peculiar  institutions ;  that  was  one  of  the  yearly  notches 
cut  in  our  village  calendar,  by  which  we  were  the  better 
able  to  observe  our  progress  in  matters  musical,  social, 
and  even  matrimonial.  I  feel  obliged  to  append  the  last 
item  to  the  list,  because  candor  requires  it  to  be  confessed 
that  more  matches  were  made  at  singing  school,  especially 
among  the  younger  folk,  than  at  any  other  place  or  time. 
And  that  seems  to  be  one  of  the  important  truths  in  village 
history  every  where. 

Mr.  Zebulon  Beard  was  chorister,  or  choir  leader,  for  a 
great  many  years.  He  was  elected  at  a  very  early  age, 
as  such  matters  generally  go  in  country  choirs,  and  had 
managed  to  keep  his  seat  through  all  the  shocks  incident 
to  choral  organizations.  This,  at  least,  was  something 
worth  speaking  of.  Added  to  the  fact  of  this  good  luck 
of  his  was  yet  another  —  he  was  an  excellent  vocalist. 

(281) 


282  OUR   PARISH. 

To  sing  was  what  nearly  every  person  in  the  parish 
thought  he  or  she  could  do  ;  but  to  sing  well,  —  to  do  it  in 
a  way  that  betrayed  acquaintance  with  singing,  as  a  sci 
ence,  —  to  be  sure  and  make  only  melody  of  it,  —  that  was 
what  very  few  could  really  prove  themselves  fully  equal  to. 
Mr.  Beard,  however,  was  admitted  to  be  rather  a  master 
hand  at  his  calling,  and  could  catch  a  note  from  the  quaver 
of  a  pitchpipe  as  skilfully  as  any  other  one  who  could  be 
produced. 

Winter  after  winter  the  singing  school  was  kept  up. 
Without  a  single  exception,  it  had  always  held  its  meetings 
in  the  little,  low,  brick  school  house  that  stood  exactly  at 
the  junction  of  the  village  street  and  a  cross  road.  The 
room  was  small,  illy  ventilated,  provided  with  no  greater 
comforts  in  the  line  of  seats  than  a  double  row  of  low 
planks,  for  benches,  that  formed  a  hollow  square  about  the 
hot  iron  box  stove,  and  always  so  meagrely  lighted  that 
recognition  was,  not  unfrequently,  quite  out  of  the  question. 

There  they  sat,  ranged  in  double  rows  around  the  room, 
on  those  hard  wooden  benches  —  the  males  on  one  side  of 
the  house  and  the  females  on  the  other.  It  was  expected 
of  every  scholar,  whether  man,  woman,  or  child,  that  he 
or  she  bring  a  separate  candle,  that  so  the  expense  of 
weekly  illumination  might  be  equally  defrayed.  This  reg 
ulation  was  often  the  occasion  of  a  great  deal  of  mirth ;  for 
some  came  with  little  blunt  stumps  of  candles,  just  in  their 
last  sputtering  throes,  blackened  all  over  with  previous 
fires,  and  stuck,  as  a  final  resort,  into  a  flat  turnip  carefully 


OUR   SINGING    SCHOOL.  283 

pared  for  this  particular  tyne.  It  was  ludicrous  to  see 
them  going  about  from  one  seat  to  another,  now  leaning 
backward,  and  now  reaching  forward,  to  get  a  fight  from 
a  neighbor  and  incidentally  whisper  something  that  had 
no  connection  with  the  light  at  all.  A  stranger  would  have 
done  more  than  merely  smile,  I  fear,  if  he  could  have 
looked  in  unexpectedly  upon  our  musicat  group  —  candles 
dancing,  wavering,  and  glimmering ;  heads  and  figures  in 
all  possible  attitudes  and  positions ;  feet,  some  of  them, 
perched  high  on  the  backs  of  the  benches  before  them ; 
eyes  staring  and  mouths  agape;  and  the  persevering  in 
structor  trying  to  make  accomplished  musicians  of  every  one. 

Once  in  a  great  many  winters  the  musically  inclined 
of  the  parish  managed  to  raise  funds  enough  to  secure 
the  weekly  services  of  an  itinerant  singing  teacher;  and 
then  each  week  the  village  felt  a  thrill  of  excitement  and 
enthusiasm  from  which  it  hardly  recovered  before  the  en 
tire  seven  days  had  gone  round  again.  "When  Mr.  Pratt 
did  come  there  was  a  notable  stir.  Every  body  seemed 
suddenly  to  awake  and  to  be  rubbing  bis  eyes.  The  girls 
were  especially  lively.  It  was  a  grand  gala  time  for 
them.  They  had  only  the  pleasantest  pictures  to  make 
into  prospects  for  the  whole  winter. 

How  boldly  Mr.  Pratt  began  !  With  what  a  readiness 
did  he  take  hold  of  his  work,  cutting  and  slashing  this 
side  and  that ;  carrying  every  thing  fairly  by  storm  that 
they  had  trembled  to  meet  before  !  What  an  offhand,  at 
tractive,  impressive  way  he  had !  Not  one  of  all  the  males 


284  OUR   PARISH. 

in  the  parish  who  could  sing  a  note  but  looked  on  him  and 
his  attainments  with  the  purest  envy,  albeit  they  might  not 
have  known  it  to  be  such. 

Breves  and  semibreves ;  quavers  and  semiquavers  ;  staffs, 
scales,  flats,  and  sharps ;  alto,  tenor,  bass,  treble,  and  all 
besides ;  beats,  rests,  and  stops,  —  how  they  rattled  from 
the  oily  end  of  his  glib  tongue,  till  the  heads  of  his  listen 
ers  were  crammed  full  with  no  knowledge  but  the  knowl 
edge  of  music !  He  was  a  wonderful  man ;  every  body 
admitted  it ;  and  the  only  pity  seemed  to  be  that  the  vil 
lage  could  not  secure  sufficient  pecuniary  provision  for  his 
attendance  every  winter.  Yet  half  the  time  was  better 
than  not  to  have  him  at  all,  even  as  half  a  loaf  is  often 
spoken  of  as  being  better  than  no  bread. 

It  was  more  particularly  under  his  tuition  that  Mr. 
Beard  had  reached  his  present  state  of  proficiency;  and 
it  is  very  natural  to  conclude  that  his  style  of  singing  and 
directing  in  the  choir  was  as  exact  a  copy  of  Mr.  Pratt's 
manner  as  he  was  able  to  compass.  He  flourished  more 
than  was  necessary ,*and  beat  the  air  wildly  with  his  book, 
and  called  it  only  beating  time.  Occasionally  his  man 
agerial  gestures  were  rather  more  extended  than  was  fairly 
consistent  with  actual  necessity;  and  he  now  and  then 
knocked  in  the  crown  of  a  bonnet  unawares,  tilting  up 
its  front  at  an  angle  quite  different  from  that  so  sed 
ulously  studied  by  the  wearer. 

At  the  schools  the  men  twisted  off  the  burning  wicks  of 
their  candles  with  their  fingers  when  the  wicks  got  'to  be 


OUR   SINGING   SCHOOL.  285 

too  long,  while  the  girls  used  their  scissors  for  that  office. 
They  telegraphed  to  each  other  across  the  floor  in  secret 
and  symbolic  methods,  which  made  the  singing  all  the 
pleasanter  to  them.  When,  as  at  the  beginning  of  every 
"  quarter,"  they  were  drilled  in  reading  the  notes,  and  in 
giving  every  one  its  proper  expression,  the  veriest  mis 
anthrope  must  have  laughed  at  times  to  listen  to  the  bla 
tant  noises  that  proceeded  from  the  snarl  and  jumble  of 
voices.  And  they  laughed  themselves,  too,  and  thought 
there  was  no  better  fun  to  be  had  any  where  for  as  much 
as  four  times  the  money. 

"  Witt  you  give  me  your  attention  now?  Fa,  sol,  la, 
si/'  &c. 

Such  was  Mr.  Zebulon  Beard's  very  frequent  appeal  to 
them.  They  had  rather  more  respect  for  Mr.  Pratt,  for  he 
could  command  their  attention  whether  they  would  or  no. 
It  was  hardly  so  with  his  disciple.  Mr.  Beard's  tongue 
often  failed  him  when  his  hands  insisted  on  proceeding; 
and  the  natural  consequence  was,  that  he  would  be  left 

v  J 

standing  in  a  highly  gesticulatory  attitude  sometimes,  with 
not  a  word  on  his  tongue  to  help  him  out  of  his  difficulty ; 
just  as  a  vessel  may  lie  stuck  in  the  oozy  mud  of  some  flat, 
waiting  only  for  the  tide  to  return  and  relieve  her.  These 
little  scenes  caused  tittering  now  and  then,  which,  in  their 
turn,  produced  additional  gesticulation,  and  dammed  up  the 
tide  of  words  still  higher  than  ever. 

But  all  of  them  learned  at  the  winter  singing  school ; 
there  was  no  gainsaying  that.  Children,  even,  walked  up 


286  OUR  PARISH. 

the  music  bars  as  easily  as  hodmen  climb  their  ladders. 
The  girls  and  boys  all  made  progress.  Their  parents 
confessed  it.  Their  own  persistent  efforts,  both  in  school 
and  out,  abundantly  attested  it.  In  good  time,  those  who 
were  now  just  beginning  would  step  into  the  places  in  the 
village  choir  vacated  by  deaths  and  marriages  there.  The 
musical  stock  was  kept  continually  replenished.  There 
were  no  fears  that  the  church  would  have  to  listen  to 
prayers  and  not  to  praises  also. 

Where  the  present  fathers  and  mothers  first  learned 
acquaintance  with  one  another,  whispering  behind  their 
book  covers  and  stealing  off  finally  together  home,  there 
the  children  were  duly  improving  their  time  in  the  same 
style,  and  promised  to  unite  old  village  families  in  bonds 
closer  than  those  of  friendship  merely.  The  singing  school 
was  one  of  the  best  places  in  the  world  for  what  people  call 
"  sparking."  The  result  fully  established  a  fact  so  peculiar. 
Mary  was  expected  to  go  home  with  almost  every  young 
beau  there  was  present ;  for  Mary  was  the  village  belle.  And 
Margaret  found  her  name  written  in  a  great  many  more 
books  than  belonged  to  her,  with  some  sentimental  quatrain 
becomingly  attached.  And  the  Lucys,  and  Elizabeths,  and 
Joannas,  and  Julias  that  came  along  after  to  assert  their 
claims,  —  they  managed  very  easily  to  engage  the  atten 
tion  of  quite  all  the  rest. 

What  a  giggling  there  was  when  school  "  let  out " ! 
What  unnecessary  confusion  in  assorting  the  hoods,  and 
bonnets,  and  shawls,  even  although  they  had  been  hung  up 


OUR   SINGING   SCHOOL.  287 

in  the  first  place  with  scrupulous  care  !  How  oddly  some 
one  of  the  boys  got  mixed  in  with  a  snarl  of  roguish  girls, 
who  made  his  face  afire  with  blood,  and  his  ears  tingle  with 
their  sharp  remarks,  before  he  effected  his  extrication  again ! 
What  promises  of  visits  were  then  made,  that  were  to  an 
swer  for  the  whole  of  the  coming  week  !  What  invitations 
were  extended  on  all  sides,  and  how  they  were  increased, 
and  persisted  in,  and  repeated!  What  an  inextricable 
snarl  they  all  got  into,  before  they  finally  reached  the  door 
and  crowded  into  the,  cribbed  little  entry!  What  a  dire 
confusion  of  tongues,  fair  type  in  its  way  of  a  model  Babel ! 
What  laughing,  and  greeting,  and  shaking  of  hands,  and 
telling  of  secrets,  and  exclamatory  "  Os "  and  "  Ahs "  ! 
Were  ever  such  times  before  ?  Did  ever  days  go  by  to 
which  the  hearts  of  the  participators  would  afterward  turn 
back  with  fonder  regrets  and  more  tender  memories  ? 

Our  little  village  singing  school  had  its  own  peculiar  in 
fluence.  It  made  itself  felt  in  all  the  ramifications  of  our 
social  state.  Beginning  at  the  brick  school  house  at  the 
cross  road,  it  sent  its  legitimate  pulsations  through  all  the 
smaller  and  larger  veins  of  our  society,  until  its  warmth 
culminated  in  the  church  itself. 

Let  none  speak  of  village  singing  schools  triflingly.  For 
myself,  I  have  a  sort  of  regard  for  them  that  I  can  com 
pare  with  nothing  but  itself.  They  are  genial  nurseries 
of  some  of  our  best  and  truest  social  sentiments.  If  we 
could  do  without  them  altogether,  we  should  have  to  make 
up  our  minds  to  do  without  a  great  deal  more  besides. 


288  OUR   PARISH. 


And  is  there  no  pleasant  recollection  connected  with  these 
schools,  twining  itself  about  the  feelings  of  my  reader's 
heart,  on  which  grow  some  of  the  tenderest  of  sentiments  ? 
Do  all  those  long-past  winter  evenings  lie  like  a  waste  in 
the  memory,  with  not  so  much  as  a  twig  or  a  flower  lifting 
its  head  above  the  soil  by  which  to  recognize  the  spot 
where  once  there  slept,  in  truth,  the  "  happy  valley "  ? 


CHAPTER    XXV. 

A  ROADSIDE  ROSE. 

NOT  a  vine,  intwining  itself  around  the  friendly  supports 
'  proffered  it,  and  bearing  only  green  leaves  that  form  a  ruffle 
*  but  make  no  shade. 

Not  a  delicate  hothouse  plant,  that  the  few  come  now 
and  then  to  admire  in  their  most  unnatural  way,  and  is  af 
terwards  useful  to  none. 

Not  a  precious  gem,  too  brilliant  to  be  touched  and  too 
costly  to  be  enjoyed;  that  must  needs  be  put  under  lock 
and  key,  and  set  in  a  framework  of  gold,  and  very  rarely 
be  taken  out  to  be  seen  of  others. 

But  a  rose  —  a  real,  rich,  red  rose,  blooming  by  the 
side  of  an  old  country  wall.  Did  ever  the  good  reader 
happen  to  observe  such  ?  It  was  nothing  more  than  a  very 
simple  flower;  and  there  it  bloomed  almost  unseen  and 
unknown.  Its  fragrance  was  for  any  and  for  all.  It 
climbed  up  affectionately  by  the  side  of  a  plain  little  cot, 
refusing  to  be  transplanted  to  any  other  soil.  That  was 
19  (289) 

i 


290  OUR   PARISH. 

home.  That  was  the  rich  heart  soil.  There  could  be  none 
richer  than  that. 

Quite  a  mile  out  of  the  village  Mrs.  Nevins  lived,  in  a 
low,  small,  cottage  house,  browned  with  every  wind  and 
rain,  and  sheltered  but  partially  from  the  sxtorms  and  the 
heat  by  a  coppice  of  chestnuts  that  were  suffered  to  stand 
near  the  road.  One  would  have  thought,  in  passing  the 
spot,  there  could  be  room  for  little  more  than  contentment 
there  besides  the  humble  inmates ;  and  of  that  there  was 
a  plenty. 

Mrs.  Nevins  was  poor,  and  supported  herself  solely  with 
her  needle.  When  Mr.  Humphreys  first  came  to  Brook- 
boro',  her  daughter  Charlotte  was  quite  a  little  girl,  attract 
ing  the  attention  of  passers  by  her  dancing  before  her  moth 
er's  door.  Now  she  was  seventeen  years  old  at  least.  For 
several  years  she  had  been  a  great  help  to  her  mother,  so 
that  by  uniting  their  labor  they  made  matters  get  on  very 
comfortably.  A  merchant  in  another  town  furnished  them, 
as  he  did  several  others,  with  work,  which  he  sent  for  again 
at  stated  times,  settling  in  cash  payments  punctually. 

Mother  and  daughter  grew  together,  therefore,  rapidly. 
Charlotte  helped  clear  away  the  breakfast  table,  got  ready 
the  work  of  the  day  for  both,  and  then  sat  down  beside  her 
mother  at  her  labor.  They  sewed  and  talked;  and  they 
talked  thoughtfully,  too.  No  hours  were  altogether  unim 
proved  by  them.  It  formed  one  of  the  prettiest  of  pictures, 
their  snug  little  sitting  room  on  an  evening  in  winter,  with 
the  heaped  work  table  drawn  out  into  the  middle  of  the 


A   ROADSIDE   ROSE.  291 


floor,  the  dimity  curtains  down,  the  fire  snapping  and  blaz 
ing  on  the  hearth,  a  cat  purring  at  their  feet,  and  their 
own  needles  going  industriously.  Sometimes  Charlotte 
read  aloud  of  an  evening  to  her  mother  from  some  book 
of  travels  she  had  managed  to  borrow  from  a  friend  in  the 
village,  or  from  a  volume  of  sermons  Mrs.  Humphreys  had 
from  time  to  time  offered  them,  or  from  the  old  Bible  that 
stood  on  the  little  stand  in  the  corner.  The  time  passed  as 
pleasantly  with  the  widowed  mother  as  if  she  had  been  in 
the  midst  of  many  friends  ;  for  her  daughter  was  with  her, 
and  that  was  all  her  heart  desired. 

From  childhood  itself,  Charlotte  Kevins  had  been  re 
marked  by  every  one  a  sweet  girl.  She  practised  so 
charmingly  the  duty  of  obedience.  Her  mother  filled  her 
own  heart  so  full  with  love.  Her  nature  developed  itself 
so  beautifully,  like  the  gradual  unfolding  of  the  red  rose  to 
which  I  have  likened  her,  dispensing  its  fragrance  on  all 
sides  of  her.  Though  so  humbly  placed  in  life,  her  heart 
knew  no  less  of  happiness  therefor ;  without  doubt  it  fed 
itself  all  the  more  bountifully  in  its  involuntary  seclusion. 
Her  manners  were  exceedingly  naive  and  simple,  as  her 
feelings  were  exceedingly  direct  and  true.  The  very  taste 
with  which  she  attired  herself,  limited  as  her  wardrobe 
must  have  been,  bespoke  real  refinement  and  cultivation. 

The  veriest  child  of  nature  she  seemed,  after  all.  She 
climbed  all  the  walls  and  fences  in  the  neighborhood,  and 
gathered  the  earliest  and  latest  flowers  from  the  fields  and 
pastures.  She  knew  by  heart  all  the  pleasant  nooks,  re- 


292  OUR   PARISH. 

cesses,  dells,  and  hiding-places  about  in  the  woods,  or  by 
the  brook  that  curled  its  way  down  through  the  lowland  not 
far  from  her  door,  or  among  the  little  hills  that  embossed 
the  landscape  with  their  gentle  swells.  She  delighted  to 
run  free.  She  listened,  as  a  nymph  of*  the  woods  would 
listen,  to  catch  the  whispers  that  were  breathed  to  her  in 
the  wind.  She  let  the  big  raindrops  of  the  summer  shower 
patter  on  her  brown  cheek  till  it  was  ruddy  with  the  glow 
of  health.  Her  eyes  thoughtfully  followed  the  clouds  that 
sailed  so  quietly  across  heaven's  deep-blue  sea,  or  rested 
among  the  piled  masses  of  gold  and  purple  in  the  west,  and 
her  fresh  young  heart  became  saddened  with  a  melancholy 
that  was  sweeter  to  her  than  actual  joy  itself.  She  was  a 
little  dreamer,  too,  as  we  all  are  at  times  ;  and  she  dreamed 
her  dreams  in  the  woods  and  by  the  brookside,  on  the  hills 
and  beside  her  mother's  door. 

How  true  is  it,  that  the  world  never  looks  in  the  right 
place  for  the  beauty  it  pretends  so  much  to  admire !  Had 
it  known  that  so  simple  a  life  was  being  lived  here  in  the 
shade  of  that  old  chestnut  coppice,  by  the  side  of  that 
ragged  stone  wall,  would  its  eyes  have  been  turned  aside 
for  even  a  glimpse  of  a  charm  that  could  not  but  challenge 
all  real  and  true  admiration  ?  What  nonsense  do  half  our 
conventional  rules  and  tastes  amount  to,  after  all !  A  bud, 
a  flower,  a  freshly-opened  rose,  —  these  are  nothing,  un 
less  they  lose  the  richness  of  their  beauty  in  the  tide  of 
a  fragrance  not  one  half  so  natural  as  theirs.  The  simple 
field  flowers  are  in  no  sort  of  favor.  If  really  beautiful, 


A   ROADSIDE   ROSE.  293 


their  commonness  destroys  the  charm.  And  so  is  a  hollow 
artificiality  ingrafted  on  nature  ;  and  things  lose  or  confuse 
their  real  meanings. 

But  every  natural  heart  leaned  fondly  towards  Charlotte, 
for  she  was  nothing  less  than  nature  itself.  The  very  ar 
rangement  of  her  dress  was  in  perfect  keeping  with  this 
idea.  Her  golden  hair,  that  curled  naturally,  she  suffered 
to  fall  in  its  long  ringlets  down  her  neck  and  over  her 
shoulders ;  and  she  often  made  a  mirror  of  the  rivulet,  or 
of  some  embayed  little  pool,  in  which  she  studied  its  dec 
oration  with  wild  flowers,  and  leaves,  and  bits  of  evergreen. 
Her  eyes  were  large  and  blue ;  and  they  were  alive  with 
affectionate  expression.  Her  figure  was  cast  in  the  most 
graceful  mould.  There  was  nothing  constrained  or  arti 
ficial  about  her.  Every  action  was  as  free  and  natural  as 
the  very  breeze  that  lifted  her  hair  and  kissed  her  healthy- 
looking  cheeks. 

The  little  parlor  —  if  such  it  might  be  called — was 
made,  in  time,  quite  a  museum  of  natural  curiosities  that 
Charlotte  had  collected  here  and  there  from  the  fields. 
She  made  baskets  of  the  pine  burrs,  and  varnished  them 
till  they  looked  like  precious  wood.  Her  skill  was  directed 
to  the  arrangement  of  the  gray  and  silvery  mosses  she 
brought  from  the  woods,  over  which  she  sprinkled  liberally 
the  various  specimens  of  minerals  her  industry  had  been 
years  in  collecting.  Every  summer  she  gathered  grains 
and  grasses,  out  of  which  she  assorted  beautiful  bunches, 
placing  them  on  the  little  low  mantel.  The  house  became, 


294  OUK  PARISH. 

in  fact,  a  little  temple  of  nature ;  and  Charlotte  was  tlie 
priestess.  Under  her  hand,  what  would  otherwise  have 
been  but  rude  and  unattractive,  instantly  became  clothed 
with  a  charm  and  a  beauty  no  heart  could  resist.  The 
plain  and  cheap  furniture  looked  vastly  more  comfortable 
than  supplies  of  plush  and  velvet.  She  had  a  secret  art 
of  arranging  even  the  chairs,  so  that  they  seemed  to  invite 
you  to  sit  down.  The  carpet,  all  made  of  rags,  still  beto 
kened  better  the  tidy  and  tasteful  mistress  than  does  many 
a  spread  of  Axminster  and  Brussels.  The  loop  of  the 
curtains, —  her  gentle  hand  was  to  be  seen  even  there. 

It  would  be  a  very  strange  affair,  if,  after  fairly  earning 
such  general  admiration,  Charlotte  Nevins  should  fail  to 
attract  some  single  one  to  her  especially.  Her  heart  was 
formed  for  love,  and  she  was  loved. 

The  enviable  one  on  whom  her  young  affections  were  so 
generously  bestowed  was  really  worthy  of  her.  She  would 
be  happy  in  his  regard.  Duncan  Morrow  was  a  young 
swain  of  a  town  many  miles  distant,  the  promising  son  of 
a  thrifty,  well-to-do  farmer,  and  devoted  in  his  attachment 
to  Charlotte.  How  they  became  acquainted,  or  when,  it 
is  not  necessary  to  relate.  It  is  enough  that  they  were 
already  engaged  to  be  married,  and  that  the  day  was  now 
not  very  far  distant. 

Charlotte  was  to  become  the  mistress  of  another  house ; 
and  after  a  little  time,  just  so  soon  as  matters  could  be 
arranged,  her  mother  was  to  have  a  home  with  her.  That 
was  all  understood.  And,  looking  forward  to  this  pleas- 


A  ROADSIDE   ROSE.  295 

antest  of  earthly  prospects,  happy  in  the  affection  of  her 
lover,  herself  as  artless  and  simple  in  her  feelings  as  guile- 
lessness  itself  could  be,  she  sang  the  days  away,  waiting 
for  the  one  to  dawn  that  was  to  make  her  happiness 
complete. 

Duncan  came  to  see  her  one  afternoon,  stopping  as  he 
passed  through  that  part  of  Brookboro'.  She  met  him  as 
gayly  as  ever  at  the  door,  extending  him  a  warm  welcome. 
He  dismounted  from  his  wagon,  and  entered  the  little 
cottage. 

"  You  don't  come  as  often  as  you  used  to,  seems  to  me," 
said  Charlotte's  mother. 

He  felt  compelled  to  reproach  himself  that  he  had  staid 
away  longer  than  usual. 

His  eyes  and  Charlotte's  met.  Their  faces  were  cov 
ered  with  blushes. 

Mrs.  Nevins  would  have  him  drink  a  cup  of  tea  before 
he  went,  early  in  the  afternoon  as  it  was.  So  she  set  to 
work  over  the  kitchen  hearth,  and  in  a  very  short  time  had 
prepared  for  him  quite  a  refreshing  meal.  He  partook 
plentifully,  and  departed  soon  after,  promising  to  be  over 
in  a  few  days  again,  when  he  would  stay  longer.  Taking 
his  leave  of  her  mother,  he  still  stood  in  the  door  with 
Charlotte.  His  wagon  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  road. 

"  Wouldn't  you  ride  a  little  way  with  me  ? "  he  asked 
her. 

Her  eyes  kindled.     "  Just  a  short  distance,"  said  she. 

So  in  she  ran  to  tell  her  mother  of  her  determination, 


.** 

296  OUR   PARISH. 


and  to  throw  her  light  sun  bonnet  over  her  head.  She 
would  be  back  again  in  a  very  short  time.  Her  mother 
need  not  fear  for  her  at  all. 

As  she  climbed  up  into  the  wagon  her  face  was  all 
aglow  with  pleasure.  Duncan  took  his  seat  beside  her,  and 
off  they  went  down  the  road,  her  clear  laugh  still  ringing 
in  the  ears,  and  in  the  heart,  too,  of  her  mother. 

"  The  happy  creature ! "  exclaimed  her  parent,  as  she 
saw  her  go  out  of  her  sight. 

They  rode  on  slowly,  neither  fairly  thought  ~or  under 
stood  how  far.  To  the  cross  roads,  where  Charlotte  first 
determined  to  get  out;  but  she  was  not  ready  to  break 
away  from  the  side  of  her  lover  then.  To  the  little  knoll, 
from  which  she  happened  to  think  she  could  behold  him 
for  at  least  a  mile  after  leaving  her ;  but  she  seemed  to 
have  gone  as  yet  no  distance  at  all.  Finally,  Duncan 
stopped  himself. 

"  I  suppose  I  know  what  that  means,"  said  she,  and  pre 
pared  to  jump  to  the  ground. 

"  Isn't  it  a  long  ways  home  ?  "  he  asked.-  "  I'm  afraid 
you  will  meet  with  some  harm  if  you  go  farther." 

All  this  was  said  in  the  most  affectionate  tone,  and  they 
parted.  He  was  to  be  at  the  cottage  soon  again,  for  so 
he  promised. 

Charlotte  walked  slowly  back  until  she  came  to  a  little 
swell  of  ground,  and  there  she  stopped  and  watched  him 
until  he  disappeared.  As  she  turned  away  her  long  lashes 
were  wet.  They  were  tears,  but  not  tears  altogether  of 
sadness. 


A  ROADSIDE   ROSE.  297 

Instead  of  pursuing  her  way  home  by  the  road  she  had 
come,  she  chose  a  circuitous  course  across  and  around  the 
fields,  eager  as  ever  to  feed  her  nature  on  the  sights  of 
quiet  beauty  that  abounded  on  every  hand.  Climbing  the 
wall  at  a  gap,  she  turned  her  steps  across  the  carpet  of 
grass  that  stretched  by  the  acre  before  her.  How  beauti 
ful  every  thing  looked  !  Through  the  atmosphere  of  her 
temporary  sadness  she  beheld  objects  in  a  light  not  alto 
gether  real.  Plucking  the  little  flowers  here  and  there, 
she  clasped  them  in  brilliant  bunches,  holding  them  up  now 
and  then  to  admire  them.  Over  large  tracts  she  wandered, 
some  of  the  time  going  quite  away  from  the  direction 
homeward,  and  sometimes  straying  back  again.  Her 
thoughts  were  with  the  absent  one.  So  lost  was  she  in 
them  that  she  hardly  knew  where  she  was  or  whither  she 
was  wandering. 

At  all  events,  it  is  certain  she  did  not  see  the  great  black 
cloud  that  had  suddenly  drifted  up  between  her  and  the 
sun,  casting  its  dark  shadow  every  where  over  the  land 
scape.  She  could  not  have  heard  the  low  and  distant 
mutterings  of  thunder,  as  they  rolled  onward  towards  the 
zenith,  like  troubled  spirits  threatening  soon  to  rend  the 
thick  veil  of  their  dungeon. 

Presently  the  big  drops  came  pattering  down.  They 
fell  upon  her  hand.  She  looked  up.  One  fell  exactly  on 
her  cheek.  Gazing  about  her,  the  better  to  comprehend 
the  exact  state  of  things,  she  discovered  in  a  moment  that 
*a  heavy  shower  had  overtaken  her.  She  was  but  thinly 


298  OUR   PAEISH. 

clad.  She  had  no  protection  against  the  wet.  The  rain 
would  be  sure  to  drench  her.  Where  should  she  go  ?  She 
must  flee,  and  that  instantly.  Down  came  the  drops  now, 
thicker,  larger,  faster.  The  pent-up  thunder  muttered 
'louder  and  louder,  till  it  belched  forth  its  horrible  roars. 
The  lightning  grew  suddenly  fierce,  and  white,  and  glaring. 
Hun, —  run,  —  that  was  all  she  could  think  of. 

It  was  but  a  few  steps  to  the  shelter  of  a  fine  rock-maple 
tree,  whose  thick  foliage  offered  her  its  generous  protec 
tion.  The  drops  came  driving  down  among  the  leaves  the 
moment  she  had  secured  her  position.  A  strong  wind 
surged  immediately  from  the  west,  and  blew  aside  the 
leaves  on  the  smaller  trees  and  bushes  till  the  branches 
looked  almost  denuded.  She  shivered,  yet  she  did  not 
shudder.  So  familiar  had  she  become  with  nature  in  all 
Its  phases,  she  neither  felt  nor  knew  a  fear  now.  She  waa 
as  much  at  ease  in  a  driving  storm  as  in  the  laughing 
sunshine. 

The  thunders  became  more  and  more  violent.  They 
rattled  hither  and  thither  over  the  concave  of  heaven,  till 
they  sounded  like  the  bellowing  reports  of  an  enemy's 
cannon.  The  ground  on  which  she  shiveringly  stood  was 
shaken.  Quick  and  close  upon  the  reports  of  the  thunder 
flashed  the  white  flames  of  the  lightning.  They  dazzled 
her  eyes  till  they  were  almost  blinded.  They  seemed  to 
wreathe  themselves  about  the  tall  trees  till  the  trees  looked 
ibr  a  brief  moment  like  spires  and  columns  of  fire.  Once 
or  twice  she  staggered  backward,  unable  to  keep  her  senses 
about  her  in  the  terrible  shocks  of  the  thunder. 


A  BOADSIDE  ROSE.  299 

The  rain  poured  down  in  an  unljroken  flood.  The 
ground  was  washed  every  where  as  with  a  river.  Streams 
ran  helter  skelter  here  and  there,  and  made  short 
cuts  across  the  fields  to  hollows  not  yet  filled.  She 
could  not  see  the  distant  walls,  so  dense  was  the  wa 
tery  sheet  that  let  itself  down  between  her  and  them. 
The  far-off  trees  looked  to  her  like  huge  hulks  of  dis 
masted  ships  breaking  slowly  through  thick  vapors  and 
white  fogs. 

It  was  not  terror  that  she  felt,  for  that  had  not  yet  had 
power  to  freeze  her  soul ;  but  something  akin  to  it  had  cer 
tainly  begun  to  work  upon  her.  She  did  not  thus  shake  and 
tremble  without  a  cause.  Ah,  few  were  the  summer  tem 
pests,  many  as  they  were  that  she  had  seen,  that  had  hith 
erto  wrought  with  such  power  on  her.  And  few  indeed 
were  the  tempests  that  had  ever  before  appeared  to  any 
one  more  terrible. 

But  in  the  midst  of  her  natural  fears  an  unknown 
strength  seemed  to  steal  to  her  heart,  that,  while  her 
limbs  shook,  made  that  comparatively  calm.  She  stood 
and  watched  the  angry  mass  of  clouds  with  feelings  that 
bordered  even  on  delight.  How  they  crowded  their  dark 
heads  one  above  another !  —  she  thought,  to  get  only  a  look 
at  her.  What  brilliant  flashes  of  fire  were  those  that 
darted  so  quickly  here  and  there  through  the  sky,  lighting 
up  the  edges  and  rifts  of  the  clouds  with  a  beauty  she 
could  not  but  admire !  Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the 


300  OUR  PARISH. 

sight  that,  despite  her  weaker  fears,  gave  her  such  undi 
vided  wonder  and  delight. 

*  *  #  *  # 

#  #  *  *  * 
There  was  one  flash,  quicker,  brighter  than  the  rest. 
Close  upon  the  flash  was  heard  a  crash,  resounding 

every  where  throughout  the  sky.  A  tongue  of  white  flame 
licked  up  the  life  of  the  beautiful  maple,  and  a  simple  soul 
went  back  to  heaven  on  the  wings  of  its  hot  and  deadly 
breath. 

They  found  her  lying  there,  beneath  the  tree,  drenched 
with  the  rain.  She  had  lain  out  all  night,  none  knowing 
where  to  seek  for  her.  Her  mother  hoped  she  had  gone 
home  with  Duncan,  and  early  in  the  morning  a  messenger 
was  despatched  with  the  inquiry.  But  no  child  was  to 
be  found.  The  lover  came  back  with  the  messenger,  his 
heart  distracted  with  fears. 

They  searched  and  searched  in  all  directions.  They 
started  from  the  spot  where  she  and  he  had  parted,  and 
went  off  in  every  quarter,  scouring  the  woods  and  fields. 
The  lover  himself  was  the  first  to  find  her ! 

She  lay  stretched  out  on  her  side,  her  dishevelled  hair 
bedraggled  in  the  mud  and  wet,  and  her  garments  soaked 
with  the  rain.  One  arm,  partially  bared,  was  thrown  out 
so  that  her  head  rested  on  it  a  little.  There  was  no 
ghastly  expression  upon  the  face.  There  was  not  discov 
erable  the  least  trace  of  Death's  sudden  triumph.  The  lips 


A  ROADSIDE  ROSE.  301 

were  not  yet  colorless.  The  same  brown  tint  stained  her 
cheeks,  and  her  eyes  were  closed  as  in  a  natural  sleep. 

I  cannot  describe  the  poor  lover's  distress.  T  cannot 
think  of  dwelling  on  the  agony  of  the  doting  mother  —  an 
agony  whose  poignant  stings,  ere  long,  sent  her  to  a  pre 
mature  grave. 

Poor  Charlotte  looked  never  more  natural  than  when 
she  lay  in  her  coffin  on  that  quiet  summer  day,  and  the 
villagers  thronged  the  church  to  get  a  last  view  of  her 
whose  face  they  would  never  behold  again.  All  grieved 
at  the  loss,  bewailing  the  stroke  that  had  taken  her  away. 
But  it  was  a  long,  a  very  long  time  before  the  bereaved 
lover  could  take  the  fearful  lesson  to  his  heart  as  Heaven 
had  intended  —  before  he  could  say,  as  sweet  and  gentle 
Alice  Carey  has  said,  — 

"  Even  for  the  dead  I  will  not  bind 

My  soul  to  grief;  death  cannot  long  divide; 
For  is  it  not  as  if  the  rose  had  climbed 
My  garden  wall,  and  blossomed  on  the  other  side  ? " 


CHAPTER  XXYI. 

A  SICK  ROOM  AND  ITS  LESSONS. 

MR.  HUMPHREYS'  family  now  numbered  five,  instead 
of  four.  There  were  three  children,  and  the  last  was  a 
girl.  Mary  Humphreys  bade  fair — so  the  good-natured 
flatterers  of  the  village  used  to  say — to  rival,  if  not  to 
excel,  her  mother  in  all  her  admirable  qualities.  And 
being  the  only  girl,  there  cannot  be  much  doubt  that  as 
much  was  made  of  her  as  she  deserved.  Yet  running,  or 
rather  thrilling,  through  her  dear  parents*  affection  for  her 
was  a  secret,  silent  fear,  akin  at  times  to  trembling,  lest  the 
sickly  breath  might  dry  up  her  life,  and  the  pale  and  shad 
owy  hand  beckon  her  away. 

The  boys  grew  wonderfully,  attending  the  academy  reg 
ularly.  They  promised  to  become  ready  scholars,  and  to 
supply  all  the  future  demands  that  might  be  made  upon  their 
faculties.  Alfred  was  fast  becoming  a  large  boy.  Some 
times  his  father  thought  seriously  within  himself  respect 
ing  the  life  work  to  which  he  would  at  length  be  called. 
He  thought  tenderly,  too,  of  Ms  own  youth,  now  passed 

(302) 


A   SICK  ROOM  AND   ITS   LESSONS.  303 

like  a  tinted  dream  —  gone,  like  a  morning  dew,  in  the 
blaze  of  the  working-day  sun.  He  hoped  that,  whatever 
the  child's  earthly  career,  it  would  not  be  so  unhappily  •— 
nay,  so  wretchedly  —  begun  as  was  his  own.  Swift  as  had 
been  the  flight  of  the  years,  and  though  anxieties  and  cares 
had  now  begun  to  sprinkle  the  dark  hair  thinly  with  silver, 
his  heart  had  nevertheless  all  the  time  retained  its  early 
freshness,  and  from  its  soil  the  refreshing  dew  had  not  yet 
all  been  dried  up. 

How  suddenly  trials  come  upon  us!  They  do  not 
always  send  their  messengers  before  them  to  prepare  their 
way.  Not  always  do  they  knock  at  our  doors  before  they 
enter  our  dwellings. 

Mr.  Humphreys'  entire  physical  system  was  prostrated. 
Year  in  and  year  out,  now,  for  a  long  and  unbroken  line 
of  years,  he  had  labored  earnestly  and  with  an  unsparing 
hand  in  his  Master's  vineyard.  What  he  had  pictured  to 
his  mind  as  heedful  to  be  done,  when  he  first  entered  on 
his  work,  he  had  faithfully  tried  to  do.  His  whole  heart 
and  life  were  bound  up  in  his  calling.  "With  heroic  reso 
lution  he  had  determined  to  go  through  to  the  end. 

And  with  such  high  purposes,  constantly  reaching  far 
ther  forward  to  attain  a  loftier  mark  than  ever  he  had  set 
his  eyes  upon  before,  calling  continually  on  God  to  support 
him  through  the  labor,  the  anxiety,  and  the  exhaustion, 
seeking,  too,  a  blessing  on  all,  he  wore  away  those  earlier 
and  more  vigorous  years  of  his  life,  sparing  nothing  in  the 
way  of  effort,  never  giving  over,  always  vigilant,  prayer- 


304  OUR  PARISH. 

ful,  and  filled  with  an  abiding  trust.  This  was  the  true 
character  of  his  work,  and  this  a  faint  outline  of  what, 
under  Heaven,  he  was  laboring  eventually  to  compass. 
"  Christ  and  him  crucified "  were  all  in  all  to  him.  The 
coming  of  his  kingdom  was  the  hope  for  which  he  strove, 
on  which  he  lived,  for  which  he  was  ready  to  sacrifice  all 
earthly  ease  and  peril  all  his  earthly  happiness. 

It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  sickness  should,  at  some 
time  or  another,  come ;  and  come  it  did. 

A  violent  fever  attacked  him  ;  and  he  was  thrown  on  a 
sick  bed,  helpless  and  prostrate. 

At  first  the  good  village  physician  thought  he  might  be 
successful  in  breaking  it  up  before  it  began  to  run  its  riot 
ous  course  in  his  veins  ;  but  Doctor  Jennings  was  not  quite 
equal,  with  all  his  skill,  to  ihiS  task,  whatever  he  might 
have  been  able  to  do  in  other  cases.  The  disease,  which 
was  a  typhus  fever,  had  taken  possession  of  the  citadel ; 
and  nothing  but  the  most  skilful  treatment,  with  the  bless 
ing  of  Heaven,  could  force  it  from  its  strong  position. 

How  the  whole  house  grew  suddenly  changed  !  There 
was  a  continual  stillness  all  over  it,  as  if  Death  were 
reigning.  The  doors  were  closed ;  the  curtains  were  down  ; 
those  who  came  in  with  assistance  and  sympathy  were 
careful  to  step  lightly,  so  that  the  very  echoes  of  their 
tread  were  painful ;  and  conversation  was  conducted  in 
such  low  tones,  often  little  above  whispers,  that  it  gave  the 
place  an  appearance  of  the  deepest  dejection  and  melan 
choly. 


A    SICK   ROOM   AND    ITS    LESSONS.  305 

Poor  Carrie  !  —  her  own  mother  gone  now,  too,  —  how 
sadly  went  she  around  the  rooms,  her  countenance  clouded 
with  the  deepest  anxiety !  Sometimes  she  stole  away  to 
weep,  for  her  thoughts  would  stretch  forward  to  the  dread 
possibility  of  losing  him  she  so  'dearly  loved.  But  these 
lonely  communings  with  her  heart  were  invariably  light 
ened  with  prayer ;  she  pleaded  —  O,  how  earnestly !  —  for 
his  restoration  to  health,  if  so  might  be  the  will  of  Heaven, 
and  for  his  longer  continuance  here  in  his  Lord's  good 
work ;  and  always  a  silvery  cloud  skirted  the  dark  horizon 
of  her  fears,  lifting  the  gloom  as  nothing  else  can  do  but 
prayer. 

Nance  Rivers,  the  negress,  continued  at  Ingleside  all 
the  time  with  Mrs.  Humphreys  ;  and  her  services  proved 
invaluable.  Many  and  many  a  step  did  she  save  the 
afflicted  wife,  and  her  strength  employed  itself  usefully 
when  another's  might  have  failed.  And  old  Mrs.  Grey 
came  over  very  often,  too,  —  every  day,  if  she  could,  — 
proffering  all  the  assistance  she  had  it  in  her  power  to 
give ;  and  she  was  one  of  the  best  of  nurses,  having  a 
ready  and  gentle  hand  in  a  sick  room.  Jessie  gladly 
released  her  from  attendance  upon  herself ;  for  Jessie  had 
grown  to  be  quite  a  young  woman,  and  learned  to  do  much 
for  herself  that  she  could  never  do  before. 

The  visits  of  the  doctor,  daily,  twice  a  day,  thrice  a  day, 

—  the  air  of  sadness  every  where  about  the  parsonage, 

even  when  that  summer's  sun  shone  most  brilliantly, — the 

silence  that  reigned  almost  perpetually,  —  the  hush  of 

20 


306  OUR   PARISH. 

voices  every  where  within,  —  the  muffled  tread  of  feet,  — 
the  ominous  whispers,  one  day  making  favorably  for  the 
sick  man,  and  the  next  turning  the  full  strength  of  their 
tide  against  him,  —  the  boding  shake  of  heads,  and  the 
long  faces  expressive  of'nothing  but  unrelieved  melancholy, 
—  they  wore  deeply,  deeply  into  the  heart  of  the  devoted 
wife  and  mother,  threatening  even  to  undermine  and  ex 
haust  the  remaining  strength  on  which  she  depended. 

There  he  lay  stretched  on  the  bed,  day  after  day,  taking 
but  little  notice  of  those  around  him.  His  life,  at  moments, 
appeared  to  have  vanished.  Sometimes  his  breathing  was 
so  slight  that  it  was  scarcely  sufficient  to  stain  ever  so  little 
the  mirror  placed  to  his  lips.  For  many  days  he  was 
delirious,  raving  now  like  a  madman,  and  now  talking  gen 
tly  of  those  he  loved  as  the  apple  of  his  eye.  These  were 
the  days  of  real  trial  to  the  afflicted  wife,  for  it  appalled 
her  heart  to  behold  her  beloved  husband  other  than  he 
had  always  been  to  her.  She  would  stand  and  gaze  at 
him  for  a  long  time,  saying  nothing  to  any  one  present,  or 
exclaiming  in  sighs,  drawn  from  the  very  depths  of  her 
heart,  "  Poor  William  !  dear  William  !  "  And  then  imme 
diately  she  would  walk  rapidly  from  the  room,  and  go  off 
by  herself  alone  to  weep  and  to  pray  again. 

Sad  indeed  were  these  days.  Days  that  had  heretofore 
been  lit  with  the  glories  of  the  summer  now  grew  dark 
and  gloomy,  as  if  overhung  with  a  funereal  pall.  From  her 
broken  sleep,  at  night,  she  would  involuntarily  start,  to  be 
at  his  bedside,  and  there  betray  all  the  intense  anguish  of 


A  SICK  BOOM  AND   ITS   LESSONS.  307 

/ 

her  anxiety  for  him  who  still  lay  unconscious  of  her  pres 
ence  or  her  love.  It  was  this  single  thought,  perhaps,  that 
troubled  her  so  deeply  —  that  he  had  forgotten  her,  even 
for  a  single  moment.  And  she  trembled  again,  fearing  lest 
he  might  in  this  state  pass  away,  and  so  leave  nc  further 
token  of  his  recognition  or  remembrance. 

It  is  a  troublesome  fear,  for  all  of  us  who  have  dear 
friends  "  to  part  with.  When  we  separate,  —  they  for 
heaven,  while  we  remain  behind,  —  we  wish  for  nothing 
more  earnestly  than  that  we  may  be  able  to  interpret  their 
last  words,  their  last  pressure  of  our  hand,  nay,  the  very 
last  look  that  lives  and  speaks  to  the  end  in  their  dying 
eyes.  If  we  are  denied  this  we  are  unhappy.  There  is 
something  left  for  us  to  live  upon  all  our  lives  thereafter. 
Into  that  one  look,  or  word,  or  pressure  we  fondly  con 
centrate  all  our  tenderest  memories  of  the  departed,  and 
measure  and  enjoy  them  every  one  with  a  single  bounding 
thought.  But  to  lose  a  friend  when  reason  is  unseated, 
and  the  eye  is  wild,  and  the  tongue  utters  folly  and  mad 
ness,  —  O,  it  is  to  li ve  an  afterlife  all  of  sorrow,  to  which 
none  but  they  who  themselves  suffer  have  any  idea  that 
can  be  at  all  adequate. 

They  were  all  good  to  her  in  her  affliction.  Deacon 
Burroughs  was  continually  at  her  hand,  her  chief  support 
in  the  village.  The  boys  he  insisted  on  keeping  at  his 
own  house,  where  they  would  give  their  mother  no  care. 
Was  ever  a  better  man  than  good  Deacon  Burroughs  ?  — 
thoughtful  and  considerate  as  a  woman,  full  of  the  tenderest 


308  OUR   PARISH. 

40 

sympathies,  all  the  time  studying  some  way  in  which  he 
might  alleviate  the  poor  wife's  distress. 

During  the  run  of  the  fever  —  for  Doctor  Jennings  had 
said,  after  it  set  in,  that  it  must  take  its  course  —  the  pulpit 
was  not  regularly  supplied,  but  religious  exercises  were 
conducted  by  the  deacons.  People  thronged  every  Sunday 
morning  about  the  meeting  house,  coming,  many  of  them, 
from  great  distances,  and  talked  in  low  voices  of  their 
minister,  on  whom  the  hand  of  Providence  was  laid  so 
heavily.  They  exhausted  every  source  of  intelligence  to 
fully  understand  the  condition  of  his  disease.  And  the 
women  conferred  with  each  other,  before  and  between 
services,  talking  with  sad  and  serious  countenances,  and 
wondering  if  he  were,  at  this  time  of  his  usefulness,  to  be 
taken  away.  Even  the  children  behaved  with  much  more 
than  their  accustomed  gravity,  as  if  they  felt,  as  well  as 
the  others,  the  heavy  affliction  of  the  parish. 

The  little  meeting  house  for  weeks  wore  a  very  sad  air 
indeed,  as  if  the  stillness  and  solemnity  of  the  parsonage, 
and  even  of  the  sick  chamber,  had  extended  their  influences 
even  here.  The  vacant  pulpit  spoke  loudly  of  sorrow. 
The  melancholy  faces,  too.  And  the  gatherings  around 
the  doors,  and  in  the  porch,  but  one  topic  being  brought 
forward  all  the  time,  —  they  confirmed  the  impression 
more  than  all  else  together.  How  anxiously  they  looked 
forward  to  the  time  when  the  lingering  sickness  would 
come  to  its  crisis ! 

Mrs.  Hawley  rode  over  very  frequently  to  see  her  old 


A   SICK   ROOM  AND   ITS   LESSONS.  309 

friend,  and  to  try  to  console  and  strengthen  her  in  her 
trials.  Those  were  most  full  and  free  interchanges  of  feel 
ing  that  were  made  between  them  then.  They  talked 
together,  wept  together,  and  prayed  together.  The  former 
labored  to  encourage  the  latter  with  some  greater  degree 
of  hope,  or,  if  not  with  the  hope  of  her  husband's  conva 
lescence,  then  with  the  blessed  belief  of  his  speedily  enter 
ing  into  his  rest.  And  so  gentle  was  Carrie's  friend  all 
the  time,  and  so  handy  in  the  sick  room,  and  so  considerate 
in  every  little  action  !  This  sorrow,  that  strained  the  bond 
of  their  friendship,  had  the  effect  to  make  it  stronger  than, 
ever.  Mrs.  Hawley  insisted,  too,  on  carrying  little  Mary 
back  home  with  her  at  times,  thinking  that  she  might  thus 
relieve  the  mother  from  some  measure  of  her  care.  But 
the  child  was  never  kept  away  from  home  long.  If,  in 
God's  wise  decree,  she  was  to  lose  her  father,  her  mother 
wished  her  to  be  near  to  realize  more  fully  the  extent  of 
her  dread  bereavement. . 

There  was  nothing  that  Mrs.  Jennings  was  not  ready 
and  willing  to  do.  She  and  several  other  ladies  kept 
the  parsonage  all  the  time  plentifully  supplied  with 
provisions,  that  there  might  be  no  noise  from  cooking 
in  the  midst  of  such  an  affliction.  But  very  little,  how 
ever,  was  eaten  at  that  time  at  Ingleside.  Grief  was 
too  poignant,  anxiety  was  too  much  the  master,  to  al 
low  either  thought  or  desire  for  food  to  have  its  natural 
claim. 

Mr.  Johnson's  folks  all  came  over  to  the  village,  and, 


310  OUR  pAiiisn. 

in  their  kind  and  generous  way,  offered  such  aid  as  they 
could  give.  They  were  willing  to  empty  their  dairy, 
to  open  all  their  storehouses,  to  do  almost  any  thing,  if 
by  the  means  it  was  possible  to  avert  the  calamity  that 
impended. 

And  Miss  Buss  was  very  kind ;  none  could  be  more  so. 
The  natural  goodness  of  her  simple  heart  asserted  itself 
now  in  a  way  peculiarly  her  own.  A  better  watcher  than 
she  could  not  be  found.  Her  skill  at  tending  the  sick 
seemed  born  with  her,  so  easily  did  she  go  about  doing 
what  there  was  to  be  done.  And  she  took  it  upon  herself, 
while  she  was  there,  to  relieve  Mrs.  Humphreys  of  the 
general  charge  of  household  matters,  too.  So  readily  were 
her  directions  given  from  day  to  day  to  Old  Nance  Rivers, 
Mrs.  Humphreys  saw  that  there  was  scarcely  any  thing  left 
for  her  to  do.  Miss  Buss's  brother,  Ned,  now  and  then 
sent  over  one  of  his  children  to  learn  how  Mr.  Humphreys 
was,  while  she  staid  at  the  parsonage;  and  Mrs.  Buss 
never  omitted  the  opportunity  to  send  by  them  some  trifling 
token  of  her  sympathetic  regard.  Unlearned  as  the  simple 
people  of  our  parish  were  in  the  mere  formalities  of  life, 
their  hearts  were  yet  in  the  right  place,  and  beating  warmly 
always  for  those  in  suffering. 

Even  old  Zack  Wheaton,  decrepit  and  deformed  as  he 
was,  did  not  forget  the  claims  of  humanity,  but  made  many 
a  circuit  round  from  his  little  retirement  to  the  parsonage, 
anxious  to  know  if  the  fever  had  "  turned,"  and  eager  to 
suggest  some  trifling  information  for  the  relief  of  the  sick 


A    SICK   ROOM   AND   ITS    LESSONS.  311 


one.  He  ran  on  glibly  about  the  many  herbs  he  knew  of 
that  were  all  of  them  good  for  something  in  cases  of  sick 
ness,  and  asked  Mrs.  Humphreys,  and  asked  Miss  Buss, 
if  they  had  tried  a  certain  kind  of  tea  made  of  bark,  or  a 
peculiar  sort  of  sirup  decocted  from  some  roots  he  men 
tioned,  that  would  certainly  prove  cooling  to  their  patient. 
He  always  left  his  honest  blessing  when  he  went  away, 
and  hoped  from  his  heart  that  Mr.  Humphreys  would  very 
soon  be  restored  again. 

And  there  were  none  who  were  backward  in  this  emer 
gency.  Good  Mr.  Upton  and  his  wife  came  over  often ; 
the  widow  Thorn  was  very  attentive  and  feeling,  and  so 
were  her  daughters  ;  Mr.  Chauncey,  —  he  whom  Mr. 
Humphreys,  years  before,  had  rescued  from  jail  in  a  sea 
son  of  anguish  and  despair,  —  it  seemed  as  if  his  gratitude 
was  in  no  wise  yet  spent.  To  none  were  the  daily  tidings 
of  his  situation  a  matter  of  indifference.  Even  Mr.  San- 
ger,  our  lawyer,  who  had  been  exceedingly  cold  in  his 
treatment  of  the  clergyman  of  late,  could  not  resist  this 
sudden  and  earnest  appeal  to  his  humanity. 

At  length  the  time  set  for  the  limits  of  the  disease  had 
run  its  course.  The  day  was  waited  for  with  great  anxiety 
by  Doctor  Jennings ;  but  O,  with  how  much  greater  anxiety 
by  the  patient  wife !  How  frequent  and  how  fervent  were 
her  prayers  that  his  wasted  strength  might  yet  be  sufficient 
to  withstand  successfully  the  shock  of  the  change ! 

He  was  very  low  on  the  night  of  that  important  day ; 
he  had,  at  no  time,  been  any  nearer  Death's  door.  The 

;.* 


312  OUR   PARISH. 

question  of  life  or  death  was  very  nicely  balanced;  it 
would  be  like  dividing  a  hair  to  separate  the  probabilities 
one  way  from  the  probabilities  another.  The  house  was 
now  hushed  like  a  tomb.  Only  a  few  remained  near  the 
bed,  and  they  the  most  faithful  and  skilful  of  all.  Doctor 
Jennings  was  there  constantly.  Mrs.  Humphreys  walked 
rapidly  from  one  room  to  another,  up  stairs  and  down, 
fearfully  calm  and  self-possessed,  her  countenance  fixed 
firmly  in  one  single  expression. 

His  face  was  as  the  face  of  a  dead  man  already.  More 
like  a  corpse  than  a  living  being,  he  lay  stretched  on  his 
couch,  without  the  least  motion,  and  almost  without  a  sign 
of  breathing.  His  eyes  were  closed.  His  mouth  was 
partially  open.  It  seemed  as  if  the  fires  of  the  fever  had 
burned  all  the  life  in  his  veins,  and  left  only  a  heap  of  dead 
ashes.  Prostration,  utter  prostration,  succeeded  to  the 
unnatural  tension  of  the  system  that  had  been  kept  up  so 
long,  and  there  seemed  nothing  left  at  last  to  live. 

O,  what  a  long  and  dreary  night  that  was !  The  poor 
wife  stood  over  her  husband,  and  watched  his  breathing, 
continually  putting  down  her  ear  to  his  lips.  Now  and 
then  she  raised  her  face  quickly  to  Doctor  Jennings,  and 
whispered,  in  a  tone  of  appalling  fear,  "  Doctor !  doctor ! 
he's  gone  ! "  But  the  breathing  would  afterwards  return 
again,  leaving  her  face  as  pale  as  the  sheet  against  which 
lay  the  sick  one's  hands.  "  Had  you  not  better  try  and 
get  some  sleep  ? "  the  kind  physician  asked  her.  Sleep  ! 
TSTo  —  no  —  no !  Sleep  at  such  a  time  as  this  ?  Could 


A  SICK  ROOM  AND   ITS   LESSONS.  813 

any  sirup  medicine  an  overwrought  heart  like  hers  to 
sweet  sleep,  when  such  a  crisis  was  upon  it,  pressing  it 
down? 

Finally  his  breath  stopped  entirely.  It  sank  quite 
away. 

The  doctor  quickly  felt  his  pulse  —  placed  his  hand 
against  his  heart.  The  blood  was  still  warm,  but  no  motion 
was  discoverable.  ".  Is  he  dead  ?  Is  he  gone  ?  "  cried  the 
afflicted  woman,  springing  forward  to  behold  his  features 
more  closely.  The  physician  made  no  reply.  This  only 
excited  her  the  more ;  and  it  was  difficult  for  the  others 
present  to  pacify  or  compose  her. 

A  powerful  draught  was  instantly  applied  to  the  soles 
of  his  feet.  If  that  had  the  least  effect,  there  was  yet 
room  for  hope ;  but  if  not,  then  all  chances  were  gone.  O, 
how  eagerly  watched  the  wife  through  it  all,  to  know 
whether  she  was  at  this  moment  to  become  a  widow ! 

In  a  very  short  time  the  patient  drew  up  one  of  his  feet 
in  the  bed,  and  made  a  low  exclamation,  as  if  the  draughts 
hurt  him.  The  doctor  looked  up  at  one  of  .his  assistants 
and  involuntarily  smiled.  The  wife  caught  that  smile,  and 
knew  at  a  glance  what  it  meant.  "  The  wine ! "  called  the 
doctor  in  a  whisper.  She  stepped  quickly  for  it,  and  fed 
her  husband  from  her  own  hand.  Life  was  still  there.  If 
by  artificial  means  it  could  for  a  time  be  kept  up,  there 
was  a  possibility  that  it  would  finally  recover  itself. 

The  wife's  heart  was  a  psalm  of  thanksgiving.  She  sat 
by  the  bedside,  all  the  rest  of  that  trying  night,  watching 


314  OUR  PARISH. 

narrowly  every  chance.  If  any  thing  remained  to  ba 
done,  she  seemed  to  insist  that  no  hand  could  do  it  as 
well  as  her  own.  Alternately  she  wept  and  smiled ;  and 
all  the  time  she  tried  to  feel  deeply,  deeply  grateful  for 
even  this  much  of  the  radiance  of  a  new  hope. 

When,  at  length,  the  bright  sun  tried  to  peep  through 
the  curtains,  blinds,  and  clustering  leaves  at  the  windows, 
she  had  just  betaken  herself  to  rest,  weary  and  overworn, 
yet  buoyant  with  feelings  that  are  sufficient  to  make  earth 
any  where  a  paradise.  Inquiries  came  in,  from  all  quarters, 
at  a  very  early  hour,  respecting  the  situation  of  their 
beloved  pastor.  The  intelligence  that  he  was  better,  and 
that  the  fever  had  turned  favorably,  thrilled  their  hearts 
as  no  other  intelligence  just  then  could. 

It  was  a  long  time,  indeed,  before  the  poor  man  had 
regained  strength  sufficient  to  sit  up  in  bed,  and  longer 
still  before  he  could  be  bolstered  in  his  chair,  resting  his 
feet  on  a  soft  cricket  placed  to  receive  them.  And  it  was 
with  a  delight  that  none  but  those  who  have  thus  suffered 
can  appreciate  that  he  first  looked  out  of  the  window,  and 
let  his  eyes  run  up  and  down  the  pleasant  street.  The 
light  had  to  be  shaded  for  him,  for  his  vision  was  still  very 
weak,  and  only  for  a  few  brief  moments  at  a  time  could 
he  be  permitted  to  indulge  himself.  But  it  all  seemed 
to  him  like  a  strange  and  bewildering  dream.  He  could 
not  help  feeling  that  he  had  risen  from  the  dead  —  as  if 
the  heavy  doors  of  some  gloomy  sepulchre  had  swung 
Blowly  back,  and  he  had  emerged  into  this  beautiful  world 


A   SICK  ROOM  AND   ITS   LESSONS.  815 

again.  O,  how  much  more  beautiful  than  ever  was  it  to 
him  !  How  high  beat  his  heart  with  gratitude  to  Heaven 
for  this  unexpected  deliverance!  How  full  was  his  soul 
with  thoughts  of  praise  —  full  even  to  overflowing  — 
because  he  had  been  rescued  from  the  very  jaws  of  death, 
that  his  usefulness  might  be  prolonged  here  yet  a  little 
while  longer ! 

When  he  grew  stronger,  and  was  able,  in.  the  doctor's 
judgment,  to  receive  his  friends,  they  flocked  in  to  him 
from  every  quarter.  All  wanted  personally  to  attest  their 
joy  at  his  recovery.  They  brought  every  nice  and  rare 
thing  that  palate  could  crave  or  the  ingenuity  of  house 
keeper  could  devise.  They  put  their  horses  at  his  ser 
vice,  as  soon  as  he  should  be  able  to  ride  abroad,  hoping 
he  would  not  slight  the  kind  offers  of  a  single  one  of 
them. 

But  it  was  in  the  quiet  bosom  of  his  family  that  he  most 
freely  unveiled  his  feelings.  How  glad  his  heart  was  to 
collect  around  itself  his  loving  and  dependent  brood  again, 
and  to  them  to  recount  his  mercies,  and  with  them  to  min 
gle  his  gratitude  and  devotion  ! 

He  was  little  more  than  the  shadow  of  his  former  self 
when  he  entered  his  pulpit  again ;  yet  he  said  that  a  new 
strength  was  given  him  while  he  was  there.  Glad  enough 
were  his  people  to  welcome  him  back  again  into  the  sanc 
tuary,  and  to  mingle  their  praises  with  his  for  all  the 
mercies  and  loving  kindnesses  of  a  common  Father. 


316  OUR  PARISH. 

The  trial  proved  a  blessing ;  for  it  confirmed  friendship, 
drew  out  sympathy,  challenged  sober  thoughtfulness,  awa 
kened  the  most  wholesome  and  salutary  fears,  and,  finally, 
lifted  hearts  higher  and  nearer  to  God  than  they  had  ever 
been  carried  before. 


CHAPTER    XXVH. 

AN  OLD  FRIEND   IN  A  NEW  CHARACTER. 

THE  stage  drove  up  before  the  old  inn  of  Mr.  Thistle 
one  autumn  day,  and  from  it  alighted  two  men,  one  very 
much  younger  than  the  other.  The  younger  seemed  to  be 
known  here  and  there  by  those  whom  he  passed  on  his 
way  up  the  street ;  but  the  elder  was  entirely  a  stranger. 
Yet,  when  he  first  touched  the  ground  at  Mr.  Thistle's,  he 
was  overheard  saying,  in  a  half  soliloquy,  looking  very  sad 
while  he  spoke  it,  "  Seems  to  me  this  place  looks  a  little 
familiar.  Seems  to  me  I've  been  here  before  ;  but  I  can't 
tell  certain.  My  memory  isn't  what  it  was  once.  It  fails 
me  now  and  then,  I  find."  And  with  these  and  such 
words  he  went  groping  his  way  about,  until  his  younger 
companion  called  to  tell  him  that  he  was  ready  to  go  up 
the  street. 

If  he  had  ever  been  there  before,  it  was,  in  all  likeli 
hood,  very,  very  many  years  ago. 

His  eyes  he  kept  very  busy  as  he  walked  slowly  up  the 
street,  gazing  with  much  interest  on  all  sides  of  him,  not 

(317) 


318  OUR  PARISH. 

less  at  the  houses  and  the  little  yards  and  gardens  than  at 
the  people  themselves  whom  he  met.  He  was  a  man,  to 
appearance,  quite  advanced  in  years,  and  still  bore  the 
marks  of  good  days,  perhaps  of  better  days  ;  yet  his  dress 
did  not  argue  either  great  poverty,  nor  did  his  manners 
outwardly  suggest  connection  with  vice  or  crime.  Still 
there  was  an  air  of  mystery  about  him.  He  naturally  set 
you  a-thinking  that  there  was  a  story  wrapped  up  in  him. 

As  straight  and  unhesitatingly  as  if  he  were  perfectly 
familiar  with  every  little  peculiarity  of  the  town,  went  the 
young  man  forward  till  he  reached  the  door  of  Mrs.  Mar 
garet  Grey's  cottage.  There  he  stopped  short. 

"  Here  it  is,"  said  he,  turning  round  upon  his  com 
panion. 

"Here!"  was  the  reply.  "This  is  snug,  isn't  it?  All 
very  snug ! " 

"  She  couldn't  well  be  better  provided  for  at  present, 
you  know,"  said  the  younger.  "Perhaps  the  time  will 
come  when " 

"  O,  I  know,  I  know.  Don't  speak  of  that  to  me  now  ! 
I  know  very  well,  boy,  what  you  have  done,  and  what  / 
haven't  done,  too.  Who  can  tell  me  about  that  better  than 
I  can  tell  myself?  My  conscience  needs  no  pricking,  I 
promise  you." 

"  I  do  not  stand  ready  to  rebuke  you  at  all,"  he  re 
turned  ;  "  that  is  no  part  of  my  duty.  I  only  wanted  to 
say  to  you  that  I  have  done,  and  am  doing,  the  best  I  can, 
and  hope  all  will  end  well  finally." 


AN    OLD    FRIEND    IN   A   NEW    CHARACTER.  319 

"  Certainly,  certainly,  boy.  You  have  begun  well ;  so 
you  have.  If  I  had  kept  on  only  as  you  have  begun,  you 
wouldn't  find  me  left  high  and  dry  by  the  tide  as  I  am  at 
this  day.  No,  indeed.  But  I'm  impatient.  What  shall  I 
say  ?  What  shall  I  do  ?  How  shall  I  act,  now  ?  To 
think  it's  been  so  long  —  so  very  long  !  I  wonder  if  my 

Toice  will  sound But  no,  no,  no  !  Come,  let's  go  in. 

I  can't  bear  this  suspense." 

The  young  man  accordingly  stepped  to  the  door  and 
knocked. 

It  was  opened  immediately;  for  Mrs.  Grey  had  been 
looking  through  a  pane,  partially  screened  by  the  checked 
curtain,  to  discover,  if  possible,  who  the  strangers  were. 
Her  first  exclamation,  on  opening  the  door  and  seeing  the 
face  of  the  younger,  was,  — 

«O!" 

He  hastily  shook  hands  with  her,  and,  without  saying  a 
word,  passed  in.  The  old  man  followed  him,  and  the 
astonished  Mrs.  Grey  involuntarily  stood  back  to  let  him 
go  by. 

The  younger  went  to  the  large  chair  that  stood  at  the 
farther  side  of  the  little  room,  in  which  Jessie  was  sitting, 
and  stooped  down  and  kissed  her. 

"Who  —  who's  that? "she  managed  to  exclaim.  "I 
ought  to  know,  now.  Who  is  it  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  know  me,  Jessie  ?  "  said  he. 

"  O,  dear  brother  Herbert !  "  she  exclaimed,  throwing 
up  her  arms  to  embrace  him;  and  she  now  kissed  him 
affectionately  in  turn. 


320  OUR  PARISH. 

"  Herbert,"  said  she,  reaching  forth  for  a  chair  to  seat 
him  by  her  side,  "  why  haven't  you  been  to  see  me  for  so 
long  ?  Do  you  think  I  am  never  lonely  ?  Have  you  ever 
forgotten  to  think  of  me  for  a  day  ?  " 

"  Not  for  a  single  hour,  dear  Jessie.  But  matters  have 
been  so  arranged  that  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  leave  my 
place ;  and  I  am  now  looking  forward  so  confidently  to  the 
day  when  I  can  have  you  with  me  all  the  time." 

"  0,  brother ! " 

"  But  it  is  true.  You  do  not  think,  I  hope,  that  I  am 
willing  to  toil  through  all  the  best  of  my  days  without 
some  fixed  purpose,  do  you?  But,  Jessie,  you  do  not 
know  I  have  brought  some  one  with  me." 

"Whom,  Herbert?" 

The  old  man  was  standing,  fixed  in  a  sad  revery.  His 
eyes  were  upon  the  sweet  girl,  whose  affectionate  syllables 
rang  like  silvery  chimes  in  his  ears,  and  the  thoughts  that 
chased  through  his  mind  were  of  the  most  self-accusing 
character.  A  moisture  dimmed  his  eyes,  and  his  emo 
tions  already  had  well  nigh  got  the  mastery  of  him. 

As  soon  as  he  heard  the  child  ask  that  simple  question, 
"  Whom,  Herbert  ? "  in  that  gentle  tone  of  hers,  that 
touched  all  who  ever  had  heard  her,  he  sprang  forward  to 
her  chair,  and  clasped  her  tenderly  in  his  arms.  Mrs. 
Grey  wondered  what  it  all  could  mean. 

"  My  child !  my  dear  child  ! "  cried  he,  the  tears  coming 
to  his  eyes.  "  0,  do  but  know  your  father,  who  has  for 
gotten  you  so  long !  You  cannot  see  me  any  more ;  can 


AN    OLD    FRIEND   IN   A   NEW   CHARACTER.  321 

you,  Jessie  ?  You  never  will  know  me  again !  What 
punishment  —  O,  what  punishment  is  this !  I  brought  it  all 
upon  myself  —  I  am  alone  to  blame  —  it  belongs  to  no 
body  but  myself !  Jessie,  Jessie,  will  you  call  me  *  father ' 
once  more,  just  as  you  used  to  do  when  I  held  you  on  my 
knee  in  our  happy  home,  long  and  weary  years  ago  ?  Will 
you  let  me  call  you  l  daughter/  dear  Jessie  ?  Shall  you 
drive  me  altogether  out  of  your  heart  ?  " 

He  could  not  go  on,  but  bowed  his  head  on  the  neck  of 
his  child,  who  had  risen,  and  now  stood  erect  before  him. 

"  Father,"  said  she,  in  a  very  soft  and  silvery  voice,  that 
was  full  of  feeling,  —  "  father,  do  you  really  feel  as  if  I  was 
your  own  child  ?  Have  you  got  a  place  still  open  for  me 
in  your  heart  ?  May  I  tell  every  one  that  I  have  got  a 
father?" 

Her  own  arms  encircled  the  neck  of  the  old  man  now, 
and  she  embraced  him  affectionately. 

"  Just  to  think  of  it !  "  said  Mrs.  Grey,  in  a  whisper  of 
astonishment. 

"  I  can  love  you,  father,"  said  Jessie  again,  "  if  you  will 
only  love  me  —  if  you  will  never,  never  go  away  and  for 
get  me  again." 

"  No,  never,  Jessie !  never !  Only  take  back  your  poor, 
wretched,  repentant  father  into  your  heart ! " 

Herbert  spoke  to  her  in  a  low  tone,  hinting  in  a  few 
words  how  miserable  their  parent  had  in  reality  become, 
and  how  gladly  he  had  fallen  in  with  him  again. 

"  Let  me  put  my  hand  on  your  face,"  said  Jessie  to  the 
21 


322  OUR  PARISH. 

old  man.    «  I  want  to  see  if  you  have  changed  since  I  was 
little." 

He  gently  complied  with  her  wish. 

"  Come,  now,"  said  she,  after  a  moment,  "  let  us  all  sit 
down  and  talk  about  it.  We  shall  soon  be  able  to  build  a 
bridge  over  the  stream  of  time  that  has  separated  us. 
Come,  father  —  come,  Herbert.  Mrs.  Grey,  now  I  want 
you  to  know  my  dear  father,  too.  Father,  you  cannot  know 
how  kind  Mrs.  Grey  has  always  been  to  me.  I  love  her 
very  dearly,  I  assure  you." 

And  thus  talking  from  out  a  warm  and  impulsive  heart, 
and  still  holding  on  a  little  by  her  father,  the  sweet  blind 
girl  slowly  resumed  her  seat,  while  the  other  two  sat  down, 
one  on  either  side  of  her. 

Both  father  and  brother  took  a  hand,  and  then  she  asked 
of  the  former  to  tell  his  story.  It  was  a  long  one,  but  he 
began  it  resolutely.  So  overjoyed  seemed  he  at  last  to 
meet  the  two  lost  ones  again,  and  so  excited  with  the  tu 
mult  of  his  feelings  to  know  of  a  truth  that  they  were  both 
comfortable  and  happy,  that  he  wept  as  he  talked,  and 
smiled  as  he  wept. 

He  told  the  whole  story.  He  rehearsed  faithfully  all 
the  incidents  of  years  and  years  ago,  that  first  impelled 
him  so  cruelly  to  desert  his  young  children.  He  told  them 
of  the  acuteness  of  his  after  sorrow ;  how  like  the  sting  of 
an  adder  it  was ;  how  it  grew  upon  him,  spreading  its 
canker  more  and  more  over  his  nature ;  how  he  had 
striven  for  years  to  rid  himself  of  the  feeling ;  how  he  had 


AN   OLD  FRIEND   IN  A  NEW   CHARACTER.          323 

•wandered  and  roamed  here  and  there  and  every  where ; 
and  how  he  was  finally  obliged  to  yield  himself  to  the 
power  that  was  fast  dragging  him  down  to  the  grave,  and 
go  on  a  pilgrimage  during  the  remainder  of  his  life  in 
search  of  his  children.  It  was  really  a  pitiful  story ;  it 
challenged  their  deepest  sympathies;  they  had  no  hard 
thoughts  for  one  whose  punishment  had  already  been  so 
great. 

He  had  finally  found  those  of  whom  he  had  been  in 
search.  Here  they  were,  both  his  own  happy  children. 
He  could  put  his  hands  on  each  one  of  them  now,  and  give 
them  his  dying  blessing. 

"But  I  only  want  to  feel  that  I  am  forgiven,"  he 
pleaded. 

"  You  are  our  father  still,"  spake  Jessie.  "  Can  we 
forget  that  ?  If  we  have  in  some  degree  forgotten  you, 
it  is  not  because  it  was  our  choice." 

"  0,  no  —  no  !  That  is  my  punishment.  To  know  that 
I  am  such  a  stranger  to  your  hearts,  —  you,  my  own  chil 
dren  !  —  and  it  was  all  an  act  for  which  I  can  blame  no 
one  but  myself." 

"  Still,"  interrupted  Herbert,  "let  us  learn  to  think  of 
you  hereafter  as  a  parent.  All  this  is  past.  It  ought  to 
be  forgotten  now." 

"  Can  it  be  forgiven  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Certainly  ;  it  is  —  it  is,"  answered  both  the  children. 

"  And  I  deserve  it  so  little ! "  soliloquized  the  unhappy 
father.  "So  little!" 


324  OUR  PARISH. 

"  Hereafter  we  will  make  an  unbroken  family,"  said 
Jessie,  in  her  artless  way.  "  Will  we  not,  father  ? " 

"I  promise  never,  never  to  desert  you  again,"  he 
replied.  "Only  do  not  desert  me  —  do  not  throw  me 
out  on  the  cold  world  now.  I  must  die  if  I  lose  you 
again." 

At  that  moment  there  was  heard  a  knock  at  the  door, 
and  Mrs.  Grey  stepped  to  open  it. 

Mr.  Humphreys  was  there.  He  had  been  visiting  a 
portion  of  the  parish  at  the  farther  end  of  the  town,  and 
concluded  he  would  stop  at  Mrs.  Grey's  on  his  way  home. 

When  he  first  entered  the  room  he  saluted  Jessie  affec 
tionately,  as  was  his  custom,  which  salutation  she  was  ready 
to  return.  Then  he  looked  around  him. 

He  just  recognized  Herbert,  for  he  had  seen  him,  from 
time  to  time,  as  he  came  to  Brookboro'  on  visits  to  his 
Bister ;  and  the  young  man  well  remembered  him.  They 
shook  each  other's  hands  quite  cordially,  and  the  clergyman 
told  him  he  was  glad  to  see  him  once  more. 

"  This  is  my  father,  sir,"  said  Herbert,  introducing  Mr. 
Humphreys  to  the  old  man. 

The  clergyman  looked  at  the  stranger.  As  his  eyes 
rested  on  his  countenance,  he  saw  that  the  latter  was 
already  gazing  fixedly  on  himself.  Indeed,  had  he  been 
at  any  pains  to  observe  it,  he  would  have  discovered  that 
the  old  man's  eyes  had  been  fastened  on  him  from  the 
moment  he  entered  the  room. 

As  Mr.  Humphreys  extended  his  hand  to  him,  he  could 


AN   OLD   FRIEND   IN   A  NEW   CHARACTER.          325 

not  help  involuntarily  scrutinizing  his  features,  as  if  he 
sought  the  key  to  some  secret  or  the  solution  of  some  per 
plexing  problem. 

"  I  must  have  seen  you  —  no,  it  cannot  —  yes,  I  must 
have  met  you  somewhere  before,'*  said  Mr.  Humphreys,  his 
face  lighting  with  intelligent  sympathy. 

"  Yes,  you  have,"  said  the  old  man. 

It  was  not  a  sullen  answer,  whether  it  so  seems  or  not. 
The  old  man  appeared  half  stupefied,  and  the  other  half 
chagrined. 

"I  thought  so,  indeed,"  added  the  clergyman.  "And 
now  my  first  thoughts  are  confirmed  since  you  spoke." 

"  Do  you  know  good  Mr.  Humphreys,  then,  father  ? " 
broke  out  Jessie,  in  a  voice  of  delight.  "  You  must  love 
him,  father,  for  we  all  do  that." 

"  Where  can  I  have  met  with  you  before  ?  "  asked  Mr. 
Humphreys,  musing  on  it  even  as  he  put  the  question. 
"  I  feel  certain  I  have,  yet  my  memory  is  fresh  no  fur 
ther." 

"  You  have  been  a  faithful  pastor  here  for  some  time  — 
have  you  not,  sir  ?  "  asked  the  father. 

"A  great  many  years  I  have  prayerfully  labored  to 
make  my  work  acceptable." 

"  You  remember  the  time  of  your  first  coming  into  this 
village,  then  ?  " 

"  Very  well  —  very  well." 

"  It  was  a  cold,  raw  day  in  November." 

"  Yes,  I  remember  it." 


326  OUR   PARISH. 

"And  there  was  a  stage  load  of  us." 

"Yes." 

"Well,  sir,  and  I  was  one  of  that  little  company  of 
travellers." 

"  You ! "  exclaimed  •  Mr.  Humphreys,  "  I  hardly  re 
call " 

"  Think  a  minute,  if  you  please,  sir.  Do  you  not  recol 
lect  there  was  one  man  among  the  number  who  narrated, 
in  a  few  short  sentences,  the  history  of  his  misfortunes  ? 
Do  you  not  remember  of  his  telling  of  his  late  wanderings^ 
and  how  unhappy  he  was  all  the  time,  and  how  he  didn't 
know  where  this  wretchedness  was  to  end?  Can't  you 
recall  this?" 

"I  do  —  I  do,"  said  Mr.  Humphreys,  scrutinizing  him 
now  more  closely  than  ever.  "  And  are  you  the  man  ? 
Did  you  first  come  with  me  to  this  town,  and  so  long  ago, 
and  now  here  to  call  it  all  up  again  ?  " 

"I  certainly  did,  sir;  and  I  remember  full  well  how 
much  I  was  interested  in  what  you  said  j  and,  above  all,  I 
remember  the  warm  blessing  you  gave  me  as  we  parted 
on  that  old  piazza  at  the  tavern  below.  I  thought  I  recog 
nized  the  spot  when  we  first  got  out.  I  was  not  mistaken, 
I  find." 

Mr.  Humphreys  was  lost  in  astonishment,  although  it 
was  all  highly  colored  with  pleasure. 

"  -Has  my  father  really  seen  Mr.  Humphreys  before  ? n 
Jessie  could  not  help  exclaiming. 


AN   OLD   FRIEND   IN  A  NEW   CHARACTER.          327 

"  I  saw  and  knew  him  even  before  his  own  parish  had 
looked  on  his  face,"  answered  the  father. 

He  was  the  one  who  was  a  little  intoxicated  in  the 
stage  coach,  on  that  November  afternoon  when  Mr. 
Humphreys  first  set  foot  in  Brookboro' !  It  hardly  seemed 
possible. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

THANKSGIVING. 

IN  New  England  Thanksgiving  is  one  of  the  red  letter 
days. 

There  is  no  other  time  in  the  year  to  which  old  and 
young  alike  look  forward  with  so  much  of  pleasure,  so 
much  of  hope,  and  such  uniform  vivacity  of  feeling,  as 
to  this  hallowed  point  in  the  round  of  the  rolling  months. 
Children  count  with  certainty  on  the  best  things  the  land 
has  managed  to  produce  for  a  year.  Old  age  reckons  up 
half  sadly  the  long  roll  of  Thanksgivings  that  have  gone, 
while  the  sadness  is  merged  and  melted  in  a  thought  of 
the  meetings  and  reunions  that  are  just  at  hand. 

There  is  a  general  movement  made  at  that  time  every 
where.  Those  who  have  left  the  old  family  roof  bethink 
themselves  of  the  time  when  they  shall  get  home  again,  and 
likewise  of  how  they  shall  get  there  in  due  season  to  enter 
upon  all  the  proper  preliminaries  of  the  festival.  Many 
a  busy  mother  is  sedulously  planning  for  weeks  before  for 
meeting  the  annual  call  with  arrangements  most  suitable 


THANKSGIVING.  329 

for  the  occasion.  And  many  and  many  a  child,  scattered 
here  and  there  over  the  breadth  of  the  land,  counts  up  his 
joys  as  he  has  hitherto  been  counting  up  his  marbles,  eager 
for  the  day  to  arrive  that  shall  usher  him  into  the  revered 
presence  of  his  saintly  grandparents. 

Not  less  in  quiet  and  pleasant  Brookboro'  than  in  other 
and  more  bustling  towns  was  Thanksgiving  made  a  great 
day  of.  Our  parish  never  was  behind  in  such  a  matter  as 
this.  The  sturdy  New  England  spirit  was  not  more  truly 
inherited  by  our  men  and  women  than  was  the  honest  old 
New  England  sentiment ;  and  this  Thanksgiving  sentiment 
was  one  that  sent  down  its  roots  deeply  into  our  hearts, 
and  spread  its  broad  branches  far  and  wide  over  the  plane 
of  our  conduct.  We  were  great  sticklers  for  the  ancient 
customs ;  of  which  customs  one  was  to  have  as  few  holidays 
as  possible,  and  another  to  make  the  annual  Thanksgiving 
the  chief  of  all. 

The  work  of  preparation  usually  began  several  days 
before  the  day,  generally  by  the  next  Saturday  preceding. 
Those  of  the  farmers,  or  farmers'  wives,  in  the  town,  who 
made  it  a  point  to  raise  poultry, —  turkeys  in  particular, — 
killed  numbers  out  of  their  flocks  on  that  day,  and  on  the 
Monday  following,  and  brought  them  into  the  village  for 
Bale.  The  two  stores  invariably  had  a  good  and  an  early 
supply.  And  besides  this,  wagons  laden  with  the  yellow 
piles  were  driven  about  from  door  to  door,  so  that  every 
person  could  have  a  choice  of  his  own. 

It  was  a  busy  time  with  all.    There  were  so  many 


330  OUR   PARISH. 

provisions  to  be  made  for  the  absent  ones.  There  was 
such  an  amount  of  baking  and  roasting  to  be  done.  Such 
a  variety  of  labor  was  to  be  performed  in  the  kitchens. 
So  many  pies  to  be  made,  and  so  many  ingredients  to  mix, 
and  so  much  indescribable  and  indiscriminate  mingling  of 
injunctions,  advice,  orders,  and  disappointments. 

The  boys  had  a  belief,  or  half  assumed  they  did,  that  the 
poultry  had  a  vague  prescience  of  their  impending  doom, 
and  that  many  —  the  older  heads  among  the  flocks  — 
opportunely  put  themselves  a  little  out  of  harm's  way 
sometimes,  without  quite  making  their  purpose  apparent 
to  their  persecutors.  Children,  in  the  freshness  of  their 
budding  sentimentality,  amiably  ascribe  even  to  dumb 
creatures  qualities  of  heart  they  are  not  known  to  pos 
sess  on  boiling  or  roasting,  and  fancy  that  turkeys  and 
chickens  instinctively  feel  the  influence  of  a  sedateness  and 
sobriety  not  common  to  them  at  other  parts  of  the  year. 
Well  might  it  be  so,  whether  it  is  or  not ;  for  the  decima 
tion  that  usually  goes  on  at  this  period  among  the  lords 
and  mistresses  of  the  barn  yards  is  on  a  scale  sufficiently 
large  to  create  a  long  reign  of  sadness  afterwards. 

The  winters  used  to  set  in  early  in  those  days,  so  that 
Thanksgiving  time  came  quite  within  the  vestibule  of  the 
season.  There  was  no  holding  back  on  the  part  of  the 
weather,  as  if  it  were  really  too  cold  to  begin  —  as  one 
shivers  and  shrinks  on  the  verge  of  taking  a  cold  bath, 
though  the  necessity  of  taking  it  be  imperative.  About 
the  return  of  this  goodly  festival,  the  ground  had  become 


THANKSGIVING.  331 


white  with  snow ;  and  sometimes  this  coat  of  snow  was  a 
real,  thick,  shaggy  coat  of  it,  too.  Or  if  this  chanced  to 
be  delayed  a  few  days  longer,  it  was  generally  for  the 
single  reason  that  the  air  was  too  cold  to  allow  it  to  snow ; 
not  because,  as  now,  the  genial  drifts  of  the  summer  air 
had  not  yet  all  been  wafted  away. 

Never  wanted  the  clergyman's  family  for  any  of  the 
peculiar  luxuries  in  which  our  whole  parish  at  this  time 
indulged.  They  were  sure  to  have  more  than  they  then 
needed,  and  certainly  more  than  they  would  use.  Yet  it 
was  a  source  of  gratification  to  the  people  to  know  that, 
whatever  else  and  how  much  soever  else  they  did,  they 
never  forgot  their  pastor,  but  rather  took  care  that  his 
supplies  even  far  exceeded  his  immediate  demand. 

So  into  the  old  parsonage  came  a  fat  turkey  from  Mr. 
Johnson ;  and  a  pair  of  spring  chickens  from  Mr.  Buss, 
always  brought  by  his  esteemed  and  indefatigable  sister ; 
and  a  nice  sparerib,  or  a  basket  of  sausages,  from  some 
other  one  who  had  very  recently  "  killed  his  pork  "  for  the 
winter  ;  and  still  other  things  from  still  other  people. 
They  sent  in  their  offerings  hardly  more  freely  before 
Thanksgiving  than  for  the  week  after.  Many  had  made 
more  liberal  calculations  than  were  absolutely  essential; 
and  a  good  share  of  the  surplus  went,  as  a  matter  quite 
of  course,  to  the  minister. 

The  children  at  Ingleside,  I  think,  were  as  happy  as 
children  could  be  any  where ;  for  the  zest  with  which  they 
enjoyed  this  day  was  heightened  still  more  by  the  abiding 


OUR  PARISH. 

confidence  they  felt  in  the  love  of  their  parents  and  of  the 
many  material  comforts  of  home.  The  very  idea  of 
Thanksgiving  seems  naturally  based  on  the  thought  of 
home.  If  one  has  that  to  love,  to  look  to,  to  go  to,  well 
may  he  be  thankful,  and  thankful  without  stint  or  measure. 
And  the  home  at  Ingleside  was  surely  such  a  one  as  few 
children  could  desire  an  improvement  upon. 

For  the  whole  of  the  week,  Alfred  and  his  brother  were 
amusing  themselves  with  observing  the  large  stocks  of 
fowls  that  came  through  the  village  for  sale.  Their  interest 
extended  even  to  the  friendly  examination  of  the  neighbors' 
barn  yards,  where  they  thoughtfully  speculated  on  the 
weight  of  certain  bipeds  they  considered  doomed  already, 
and  tried  vainly  to  get  at  some  exact  opinion  of  their  prob 
able  profits.  They  surveyed  with  all  vigilance  the  appear 
ance  of  the  carcasses  in  the  stores,  while  they  talked  of  the 
fat  that  lay  on  the  breasts,  and  felt  their  very  mouths 
water  at  a  sight  so  extremely  appetizing.  There  are 
hardly  any  such  feelings  again  in  afterlife,  whether  upon  the 
subject  of  Thanksgiving  or  any  other.  Things  are  seen 
so  through  a  colored  atmosphere  then,  —  the  rosy  atmos 
phere  of  youth,  —  that  the  wonder  only  is  they  keep  up 
their  pleasant  illusions  as  long  as  they  do.  And  about 
these  time-honored  customs  and  these  revered  festivals  do 
the  young  sentiments  cluster,  freshly  and  freely,  as  they 
cannot  be  expected  to  gather  again.  In  afterlife  the 
reality  becomes  too  palpable,  and  stands  out  too  plainly 
defined  in  every  irregularity  of  its  outline.  In  afterlife  the 


THANKSGIVING.  333 

colors  of  the  charming  picture  gradually  fall  away  from 
their  first  freshness,  and  the  changing  tints  lose  the  power 
of  their  versatility,  and  even  the  groundwork  gets  scarred 
here  and  there,  or  rubbed  off  in  places.  No,  there  is  no 
time  to  enjoy  these  sweet  sentiments  so  fully  as  when  the 
dew  of  youth  is  on  us. 

Our  people  were  invariably  good  attendants  on  the 
services  at  the  meeting  house  on  Thanksgiving  day,  when 
the  governor's  proclamation  was  read  by  Mr.  Humphreys 
from  a  very  large  sheet  of  paper,  and  a  thoughtful  exhor 
tation  was  made  them  to  offer  the  most  devout  gratitude  to 
Heaven  for  the  many  mercies  that  were  continued  from 
one  year  to  another.  The  little  meeting  house  held  a  circle 
of  truly  thankful  hearts  at  that  time.  There  were  many 
strange  faces  there,  too,  sometimes ;  or  faces,  at  least,  that 
were  not  regularly  to  be  seen  in  that  place.  The  children 
who  had  gone  out  from  under  the  paternal  roof  now  gath 
ered  again  about  the  dear  old  hearthstone ;  and  nothing 
seemed  more  natural  —  as  it  must  likewise  have  been 
a  self-imposed  duty  —  to  them  than  to  enter  the  ancient 
sanctuary  and  listen  to  the  words  of  gospel  blessedness 
that  fell  from  their  former  pastor's  lips. 

The  house  was  apt  to  be  a  little  cold  at  first  on  Thanks 
giving  day ;  and  the  vacant  pews,  I  am  obliged  to  confess, 
wore  a  look  quite  nearly  related  to  loneliness.  But  as  the 
people  began  gradually  to  drop  in,  and  faces  long  exiled 
began  to  renew  their  familiarity  with  the  old  spot,  and  the 
parishioners  drew  in  black  knots  around  the  stoves,  alter- 


334  OUR   PARISH. 

nately  warming  off  their  shivers  and  conversing  with  each 
other,  the  house  grew  more  agreeable  in  its  aspect,  until 
finally  they  melted  away  one  by  one  into  the  distant  seats, 
and  the  clergyman  came  in  with  his  pretty  family  so  rev 
erently,  and  the  choir  struck  up  an  old  tune  they  had  had 
in  contemplation  for  certainly  several  weeks  before.  The 
sermon  never  failed  to  satisfy  us  all.  It  was  not  mere 
speculation,  nor  all  theory ;  but  it  was  composed  of  pious 
exhortations,  based  on  a  review  of  God's  uniformly  con 
tinued  goodness,  and  uttered  with  an  unction  that  had 
instant  power  to  reach  and  work  in  all  our  hearts. 

And  it  was  after  the  services  that  there  was  a  general 
mingling  of  our  people  again.  We  did  not  hurry  at  once 
from  meeting  to  dinner,  as  if  we  had  not  half  eaten  our 
breakfasts,  and  felt  that  a  sermon  was  as  hungry  a  thing 
for  us  a  school  house  is  for  children.  It  was  not  our  cus 
tom  to  rush  out  pellmell  to  dinner,  as  if  we  thought  the  act 
of  eating  the  larger  part  of  the  good  old  New  England 
institution.  But  many  and  many  a  pleasant  greeting  was 
exchanged,  not  more  between  those  who  had  not  seen  each 
other  for  the  full  year  than  between  those  whose  intercourse 
was  interrupted  by  only  the  lapse  of  a  passing  week.  And 
many  a  story  was  told  here  and  there ;  and  much  pleasant 
ry  was  indulged  in  ;  and  a  great  deal  of  good  feeling  cir 
culated  all  around,  that  grew  more  and  more  contagious 
with  each  moment,  and  that  finally  sent  all  home  to  their 
dinners  quite  happy. 

And  when,  at  length,  the  feasts  were  set  in  so  many 


THANKSGIVING.  335 

homes,  glad  faces  and  bright  eyes  encircling  every  board, 
there  were  pictures  spread  for  any  painter.  These  scenes 
were  the  index  of  the  general  sentiment  of  the  people. 
Old  and  young,  with  their  confusion  of  tongues,  sat  gathered 
about  the  same  board.  And  there  were  such  inviting 
sights  upon  the  tables  !  —  huge  turkeys,  distended  to  more 
than  fulness,  and  much  more  than  fatness,  with  what 
children  every  where  call  "  stuffing ;  "  and  pairs  of  chick 
ens  flanking  the  turkeys  on  the  great  shallow  platters ;  and 
deep  chicken  pies,  in  brown  dishes,  wherein,  under  cover 
of  thick  and  crisp  pastry,  were  intombed  mangled  corpses 
of  young  chickens,  —  here  a  leg,  and  there  a  wing,  the 
neck  and  breast  widely  scattered,  —  the  whole  reeking  in 
a  pool  of  as  rich  gravy  as  could  be  made  to  ooze,  by  the 
process  of  baking,  from  the  disjointed  and  simmering  frag 
ments. 

And  always,  in  large  and  well-ordered  Thanksgiving 
arrangements,  the  fat  plum  pudding  came  after  the  pie, 
filling  up  the  younger  and  more  indiscreet  eaters  quite  to  the 
chin,  so  that  they  had  naturally  no  room  for  so  much  as  a 
taste  of  the  pies  that  followed  after.  Yet  they  did  not 
refuse  pies,  either ;  nothing  daunted  to  attack  the  whole 
platoon  of  dishes  that  should  present  themselves  in  for 
midable  array  before  them.  They  had  room  for  the  pies  ; 
but  usually  they  were  obliged  to  make  it ;  they  did  not  find 
it.  It  was  a  sort  of  bursting  process,  from  which  they 
wished  themselves  many  a  time '  free  before  its  legitimate 
effects  were  fairly  over 


336  OUR   PARISH. 

Sometimes  the  minister  and  his  family  made  calls  around 
the  parish  on  the  older  families,  after  dinner,  prolonging 
their  stay  until  late  into  the  evening ;  and  at  other  times 
the  nearer  of  his  parishioners  dropped  in  at  Ingleside  to 
chat  pleasantly  a  while  with  Mr.  Humphreys,  and  compare 
the  present  with  the  past,  and  talk  over  the  prospects  of 
the  church,  the  parish,  and  the  people.  These  were  truly 
primitive  customs,  bearing  as  their  proper  fruit  the  most 
simple  and  innocent  enjoyments.  And  we,  who  from  this 
present  point  of  time  can  call  up  those  annual  festivals  in 
review,  know  best  how  deeply  they  sunk  their  secret  in 
fluences  into  our  natures,  that  will  live  like  leaven  so  long 
as  we  are  wanderers  and  probationers  here  on  the  earth. 

Blessed  old  festival !  How  many  there  are  whose  only 
regret  is  that  you  cannot  come  oftener  than  once  a  year ! 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 

AN  AWAKENING. 

THERE  had  been  many  seasons  of  unusual  ttioughtfulness, 
sobriety,  and  prayer  before  in  our  parish ;  and,  little  by 
little,  had  humble  and  trusting  disciples  flocked  to  the  foot 
of  the  cross.  But  there  had  been  no  special,  no  general 
and  intense,  manifestation  of  feeling  as  yet.  The  Dove  of 
Peace  was  hovering  continually  over  them,  offering  them 
the  rest  their  hearts  all  prayed  for  at  different  times  ;  yet 
there  was  no  concerted  movement,  no  steady  swell  of  the 
waters. 

The  dispensed  word,  accompanied  by  the  fervent  prayers 
of  a  zealous  pastor,  had  done  much,  dropping  its  kindly 
influence  on  the  hearts  of  all  the  listeners  as  dew  is 
dropped  on  fields  that  have  long  lain  fallow,  and  silently 
and  steadily  enriching  them.  It  could  not  be  said  truly 
to  have  been  lost  or  thrown  away ;  for  somewhere  in  the 
life,  either  on  the  good  ground  or  even  among  the  thorns 
and  briers,  it  sprang  up,  perhaps  to  bear  fruit  in  abundance 
at  the  last,  yet  possibly  to  be  soon  choked  out  by  the  weeds 
22  C337) 


338  OUR  PARISH. 

and  the  briers.  But  no  labor  is  altogether  in  vain  — 
especially  ought  this  to  be  thought  true  in  the  case  of  the 
gospel  ministry.  To  work  with  a  sparing  hand  is  to  work 
without  faith  —  as  if  some  weak  and  wicked  distrust  had 
ingratiated  itself  into  the  soul  that  the  things  that  are  not 
seen  are  therefore  the  less  true  and  eternal.  The  devoted 
herald  of  the  gospel  never  rests,  never  wearies,  n*ever 
ceases  his  sacrifices.  The  gathering  in  of  the  harvest  is 
the  work  of  his  Lord ;  his  own  work  is  to  scatter  broadly 
the  seed. 

And  so  did  Mr.  Humphreys  labor,  and  so  had  he  labored 
for  nearly  a  score  of  years,  among  our  humble"and  simple 
people.  Never  had  his  hand  paused.  Never,  even  when 
disease  and  affliction  threw  their  deep  shadows  across 
his  life,  did  he  falter,  or  hesitate,  or  look  back.  His  faith 
was  fervent,  urging  him  continually  forward.  His  energies 
grew  still  greater  as  he  recalled  the  sufferings  through 
which  his  Savior  went  for  us  all.  He  felt  more  and  more 
strengthened,  contemplating  the  vast  field  there  was  to  be 
gone  over  and  the  hosts  of  faithful  laborers  that  had  been 
taken  from  their  work  to  their  reward.  And  if  ever  the 
human  part  asserted  its  weakness,  and  demanded  more  than 
the  devoted  spirit  was  willing  to  yield,  in  the  midst  of  his 
conflicts  he  went  on  his  knees  to  God,  where  he  always 
obtained  the  strength  needed  to  give  him  the  final  victory. 

Yet  with  all  this  constant  and  prayerful  labor,  no  great 
and  uniform  interest  had  as  yet  been  betrayed.  If  believ 
ers  were  added,  it  was  slowly  and  in  few  numbers  at  a 


AN   AWAKENING.  339 


time.  The  stream  of  comers  was  not  always  a  steady  one 
either.  Now  it  was  stronger,  and  now  its  force  abated. 
Sometimes  they  came  to  ask  what  they  should  do  to  be 
saved,  as  if  the  spark  that  had  kindled  must  ere  long  break 
out  in  a  general  conflagration.  But  it  did  not.  Yet  Mr. 
Humphreys  himself  did  not  despond  or  despair.  He  left 
all  with  the  pleasure  of  the  Lord.  The  fulness  of  the 
promise  he  believed  in  good  time  he  should  see. 

There  had  been  for  some  time  rather  more  interest  than 
common  displayed,  in  matters  of  religious  import,  at  the 
usual  Friday  evening  conference  meetings,  and  some  of 
the  younger  members  of  the  parish  were  especially  con 
cerned.  The  first  effect  of  this  interest  was  to  procure 
much  larger  attendances  upon  these  weekly  meetings  than 
usual,  calling  in  people  from  all  the  village  realms.  The 
next  natural  result  was  to  secure  the  appointment  of  these 
meetings  still  more  frequently  —  at  first,  twice  a  week, 
instead  of  but  once.  And,  finally,  they  were  held  every 
evening  for  many  weeks  together. 

Sometimes  Mr.  Humphreys  attended  on  them,  but  not 
always ;  yet  when  he  could  not  go  himself,  he  sent  his 
wife,  that"  she  might  lift  up  her  voice  in  prayer  with  the 
rest.  Now  they  were  held  at  one  house,  and  now  at 
another,  and  sometimes  at  the  school  house,  when  the  room 
was  filled  with  anxious  souls  to  overflowing.  Through  the 
days  the  coming  evenings  were  joyfully  looked  forward  to 
as  seasons  of  spiritual  refreshment  and  progression  towards 
heaven.  Minds  that  had  not  thought  seriously  of  religion 


340  OUR   PARISH. 

and  of  salvation  before  were  now  deeply  exercised  to  know 
the  way  and  the  life,  and  to  seek  to  enter  therein.  Persons 
who  had  hitherto  lived  in  a  sort  of  torpid  state  of  heart, 
seeming  neither  to  receive  nor  to  reject  as  living  truths  the 
great  doctrines  of  Christ's  religion,  now  awakened  from  the 
sleep  of  years  and  began  to  inquire  in  all  seriousness  what 
they  should  do  to  be  saved. 

The  prayer  meetings  were  scenes  of  the  highest  interest. 
It  was  a  blessed  feeling  to  know  that  people  were  pausing, 
in  the  midst  of  their  worldly  pursuits,  to  consult  first  for 
their  greatest  good  both  towards  their  Creator  and  them 
selves.  The  heart  could  not  help  yearning  with  the  deep 
est  sympathy  when  the  eyes  witnessed  such  eager  and 
earnest  strivings  all  around  it  after  the  riches  of  the  true 
grace  that  cometh  only  from  Heaven.  It  was  sweet  to  the 
converted  soul  to  feel  that  so  many  others  were  to  be  made 
final  partakers  of  its  own  joy.  And  so  all  worked,  and 
fasted,  and  prayed,  and  talked  together,  while  God,  as 
beforetime  promised,  was  certainly  in  the  midst  of  them. 

On  one  of  these  interesting  occasions,  after  Mr.  Hum 
phreys  had  led  in  the  conduct  of  the  services,  Mr.  Upton 
arose,  and  in  simple  words,  full  of  meaning  and  of  life, 
exprsssed  his  earnest  longing  for  the  salvation  that  needeth 
not  to  be  repented  of.  He  had  led  an  exemplary  life 
hitherto  —  that  is,  as  men's  judgments  generally  go;  he 
had  "  spoken  the  truth  from  his  heart "  always ;  he  had 
"  used  no  deceit  in  his  tongue,  nor  done  evil  to  his  neigh 
bor,  and  had  not  slandered  his  neighbor;"  yet  he  knew 


AN  AWAKENING.  341 

and  he  felt  that  he  was  far,  very  far,  from  grace.  In  the 
blaze  of  the  gospel  light  his  sins  were  as  scarlet.  He  saw, 
through  God's  grace,  that  there  was  nothing  good  in  him. 
Unaided  of  Heaven,  he  was  powerless  to  do  any  thing. 
But  now  he  wished  to  come  out  from  the  world  and  be 
separate ;  to  give  up  the  false  allurements  and  the  hollow 
pleasures  of  worldliness,  and  set  himself  up  a  more  accept 
able  and  perfect  offering  to  the  Lord,  whose  sacrifice  for 
such  as  he  had  been  so  great. 

The  earnestness  and  perfect  candor  of  his  manner,  to 
gether  with  the  deep  meaning  of  his  heart's  agonizing  con 
fession,  had  an  effect  on  the  minds  that  heard  him  that 
even  they  themselves  could  not  have  fully  foreseen.  Mr. 
Upton  was  an  upright  man,  as  much  so' as  any  man  in  the 
village ;  and  he  was  a  thinking  man  besides.  Whatever 
he  said,  whether  with  reference  to  his  feelings  or  his  convic 
tions,  carried  great  weight  with  it.  And  if  his  speech  had 
its  proper  influence  on  ordinary  occasions  and  concerning 
topics  of  the  commonest  interest,  it  must  be  at  once  under 
stood  how  profound  was  the  feeling  created  by  his  plain 
and  earnest  confession  respecting  matters  that  pertained  to 
the  eternal  life  and  welfare  of  the  soul,  that  reached  far 
forward  from  the  things  of  time  to  those  that  were  closely 
interwoven  with  our  everlasting  interests. 

After  him  one  and  another  rose  freely,  expanding  upon 
what  had  been  said  already,  and  asking  the  prayers  of  the 
rest  for  their  souls'  good.  Mouths  that  had  for  years  and 
years  been  stopped  now  were  suddenly  opened,  as  by  some 


342  OUR  PARISH. 

miraculous  agency.  They  none  of  them  took  thought 
beforehand  what  they  were  to  speak,  or  how  they  were  to 
address  themselves  to  the  others ;  but  language  was  abun 
dantly  given  them  at  the  needed  moment,  language  such 
as  moved  hearts  that  had  been  asleep  and  indifferent  for 
years.  The  fire  was  burning.  Its  heat  was  growing 
steady  continually.  It  was  contagious  now,  and  kindled 
hearts  hitherto  without  warmth  at  all. 

Many  were  the  converts  all  through  the  town.  Old  and 
young  joined  in  the  universal  inquiry,  "  What  shall  we  do 
to  be  saved  ?  "  Secular  business  seemed  some  days  to  be 
entirely  suspended,  that  nothing  might  interrupt  the  prog 
ress  of  the  great  work  going  on.  The  pupils  in  the  acad 
emy  had  frequent  meetings  among  themselves  for  exhorta 
tion  and  prayer,  both  before  school  and  after.  The  ladies 
conferred  with  each  other  on  afternoons,  and  labored  zeal 
ously  to  help  the  work,  under  God,  along.  Men  stopped 
from  their  dealings  and  their  bargains,  and  talked  seriously 
of  the  cause  that  had  enlisted  all  hearts  and  promised  to 
be  so  glorified  in  their  midst. 

Thus  surrounded,  —  hungry  souls  on  every  side,  eager  to 
partake  of  the  bread  of  life,  —  Mr.  Humphreys  was  sus 
tained  by  an  unseejn  hand  to  perform  an  amount  of  labor 
to  which  he  would  not  ordinarily  have  thought  himself 
adequate.  Early  and  late,  in  season  and  out,  when  the 
flesh  was  weak  though  the  spirit  grew  strong,  he  wrought 
for  and  with  his  little  flock.  His  heart  yearned  towards 
them  as  a  shepherd's  to  the  very  least  and  weakest  of  all 


AN   AWAKENING.  343 

his  yeanlings.  He  wrestled  with  God  in  prayer,  beseech 
ing  that  his  Spirit  might  be  poured  out  abundantly  over  his 
people,  and  that  they  might  all  be  called  of  God  from  the 
least  unto  the  greatest. 

Nor  was  he  less  zealous  and  faithful  in  his  Sunday  ser 
mons.  They  cost  him  a  great  deal  of  prayer  and  a  great 
deal  of  laborious  study.  His  whole  soul  was  aroused  to 
preach  the  perfect  and  pure  word.  He  hung  long  on  his 
golden  thoughts  of  heaven,  till  they  blazed  over  his  heart 
and  over  the  hearts  of  his  hearers  like  lines  of  heavenly 
fire.  And  his  exhortations,  too,  grew  very  earnest  and 
feeling.  They  were  not  more  vehement  than  ordinarily, 
but  they  seemed  to  act  with  a  far  deeper  life  on  the  con 
sciences  of  his  people.  Often  and  often  were  sobs  to  be 
heard  about  that  little  church,  as  he  pictured  to  them  the 
dying  love  of  the  Savior,  the  great  shame  he  despised  for 
us  and  willingly  endured,  and  his  unspeakable  agonies; 
and  then,  as  he  asked  them  if  they  were  not  willing  to  give 
such  a  Friend  at  least  their  hearts,  and  to  try  and  live  as 
if  their  love  for  him  was  higher,  and  deeper,  and  vaster 
than  any  other  love,  their  lips  almost  moved  to  answer  him 
aloud,  "  Yes,  yes  —  we  can." 

Not  the  least  of  Mr.  Humphreys*  sources  of  satisfaction, 
at  that  time,  was  to  be  found  in  the  fact  that  his  eldest 
son,  Alfred,  had  promised  repentance,  and  had  become 
hopefully  pious.  This  was  cause  of  the  highest  joy.  The 
thankful  father's  heart  rejoiced  as  none  but  the  heart  of  a 
pious  father  can.  He  blessed  God  for  his  great  kindness, 


344  OUR   PARISH. 

while  he  prayed  that  it  might  always  find  him  its  worthy 
recipient.  And  the  fact  inspired  him  naturally  to  still 
more  arduous  exertions,  as  if  his  heart  could  hardly  be 
grateful  enough. 

Throughout  the  whole  of  this  gracious  work  of  God, 
Deacon  Burroughs  had  been  Mr.  Humphreys'  greatest 
earthly  friend.  With  him  he  had  repeatedly  taken  coun 
sel,  and  with  him  he  had  often  gone  to  God  in  prayer. 
The  deacon's  own  child,  too,  Lucy,  —  now  the  wife  of  Mr. 
Joseph  Bard,  —  had  given  evidences  of  a  change  of  heart, 
which  tended  to  bring  the  matter  still  nearer  home  to  her 
father's  feelings;  and  he  labored  strenuously,  trusting  to 
God  to  give  the  increase  in  his  own  good  time  and 
pleasure. 

The  work  prospered  long.  The  result  of  this  special 
awakening  was  the  gathering  of  many  souls  into  the  fold 
of  Christ.  Its  happy  influence  was  seen  and  acknowledged 
throughout  the  village,  in  the  business  pursuits  and  the 
social  relations.  It  really  seemed  as  if  a  change  had  come 
over  every  thing.  The  place  looked  like  a  little  paradise. 
And  for  some  time  this  happy  state  existed.  The  heart 
of  the  people  had  been  purified  and  exalted. 

Mr.  Humphreys  had  studied  nothing  so  much  as  discre 
tion  and  the  convictions  of  an  enlightened  Christian  judg 
ment  in  guiding  the  movement  that  had  been  begun,  and 
religiously  thought  that  it  was  better  to  let  the  judgment 
keep  pace  with  the  feelings  than  that  the  latter  should  run 
away  with  the  former.  It  was  on  this  account  that  he 


AN  AWAKENING.  345 

watched  anxiously  and  prayed  continually  that  no  influ 
ences  might  creep  into  the  progress  of  this  work  but  those 
that  were  of  Heaven.  Rather  than  have  it  proceed  under 
false  and  hollow  incitements,  he  would  not  have  it  go  on 
at  all.  And  in  this  opinion  he  was  certainly  supported 
by  Deacon  Burroughs,  and  supported  with  much  stren- 
uousness. 

But  there  was  now  a  different  spirit  at  work,  not  soberly 
intending  or  desiring  to  overthrow  what  had  already  been 
built  up  on  so  enduring  a  structure,  but  refusing  to  take 
into  its  consideration  the  exact  character  of  all  the  influ 
ences  that  at  this  time  asserted  their  claim.  It  was  a  spirit 
that  did  not  stop  to  make  clear  and  truthful  discriminations, 
but  hastily  coalesced  with  the  first  impulses  that  presented 
themselves.  It  almost  undertook  to  assert  that  evjl  itself 
might  be  done  that  good  might  come. 

Some  of  the  parish  wished  the  work  carried  out  rather 
farther  than  naturally,  aided  by  good  men's  prayers  and 
fastings,  it  would  itself  go.  They  were  for  pushing  the 
matter,  when  such  aid  must  be  certain  finally  to  react  with 
lasting  injury  against  the  cause  they  support.  It  started 
involuntarily  the  thought  of  "zeal  without  knowledge," 
and  made  one  stop  and  ponder  seriously  whither  the  road 
would  at  length  conduct  him. 

Mr.  Humphreys  felt  called  upon  to  give  a  gentle  check 
to  the  progress  of  this  spirit,  telling  his  parishioners  that 
more  was  wrought  by  faith  than  by  fanaticism.  To  the 
extreme  lengths  to  which  some  of  the  less  thoughtful  and 


346  OUR  PARISH. 

experienced  were  gradually  tending,  he  himself  felt  that 
he  could  not  go ;  and  if  not  himself,  then  he  felt  it  his 
additional  duty  to  warn  others  against  the  indiscretion. 

Those  whose  hearts  have  been  carried  through  these 
deeply  interesting  seasons  will  not  need  to  have  explained 
to  them  in  detail  the  whole  of  my  meaning.  They  are  per 
fectly  familiar  with  the  fears  that  abound  at  such  times,  and 
abound  not  without  much  reason.  It  is  ever  a  trying  time 
for  the  anxious  and  farseeing  souls  whose  religious  views 
and  experiences  are  sufficiently  large  to  entitle  their  judg 
ment  to  the  greatest  consideration. 

Some  were  fanned  by  the  heat  of  new  and  foreign 
motives.  Some  felt  the  workings  of  strange  influences. 
Some  looked  forward  for  a  harvest  of  their  own  gathering 
simply,  virtually  denying  or  setting  aside  tlie  grace  and 
the  power  of  Him  who  is  able  and  willing  to  gather  all 
souls  in  his  granary.  And  their  influence  spread  like  a 
circle  in  calm  water.  It  was  easy  to  cast  the  stone,  and  it 
was  easy  to  begin  the  movement ;  but  it  was  not  so  easy  to 
tell  where  the  circle  or  where  the  movement  would  end. 

The  favor  of  Deacon  Congdon  was  obtained,  and  this 
was  a  great  deal.  He  came  forward  with  views  directly 
the  opposite  of  those  enunciated  by  Mr.  Humphreys  and 
Deacon  Burroughs  as  the  mouthpiece  of  the  opposite  party. 
Yet  the  discreet  clergyman  was  as  firm  in  his  conviction  as 
lie  was  discreet.  Without  being  rash  or  hasty,  he  was 
decided. 

So  the  wrong  feeling  sprung  up.    Its  roots  struck  out 


AN  AWAKENING.  347 

1*        $'***      . 

into  soil  made  ready  for  their  sustenance.  They  who  had 
of  old  time  ever  been  the  closest  friends  and  sympathizers 
with  their  devoted  pastor  now  admitted  thoughts  to  their 
hearts  that  had  never  found  audience  there  before.  Dis 
trust  grew  and  strange  feelings  rankled.  The  work  that 
was  begun  with  such  zeal,  and  conducted  with  such  judi 
cious  fervor,  ended  at  last  in  what  was  farthest  from  the 
thoughts,  wishes,  or  intentions  of  any. 

Yet  Mr.  Humphreys  believed  he  was  right,  and  trusted 
to  God  to  sustain  him.  Even  if  all  earthly  friends  should 
desert  him,  he  was  resolved  not  to  bring  the  cause  of  Christ 
into  reproach.  He  would  never  defile  the  sacred  vessels 
that  had  been  placed  in  his  keeping.  He  would  walk 
humbly,  following  only  the  light  that  shone  clearly  in  his 
earthly  path. 


SW 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

BROOKBORO'  WITH  ADDITIONS. 


STIMES  a  quiet  little  town,  that  has  not  felt  the 
ondriving  wave  of  innovation  since  its  grass-bordered 
streets  were  first  laid  out,  manages  to  keep  its  character 
for  staidness  unsullied  for  many  and  many  a  generation. 
It  grows,  but  so  gradually  as  to  excite  no  remark  ;  least  of 
all,  any  comparisons.  The  fat  farms  that  lie  spread  out 
on  every  hand  yield  just  about  so  much  each  year.  The 
cattle  work,  grow  fat,  are  slaughtered,  and  give  place  to 
others.  Men  turn  whiteheaded,  and  give  over  the  hard 
work  to  the  younger ;  and  boys  come  up  like  weeds, 
astonishing  even  their  own  friends,  and  crowding  their 
elders  one  by  one  off  the  stage. 

The  events  in  rural  communities  are  of  so  peaceful  a 
nature,  and  so  little  of  excitement  is  naturally  interwoven 
with  their  history,  that  they  hardly  suffice  at  all  times  to 
interest  strangers,  even  if  set  forth  with  much  art  in  their 
description.  They  were  generally  of  this  nature  in  pleas 
ant  old  Brookboro'.  The  mere  worldling  would  see  nothing 

(348; 


BKOOKBORO'  WITH  ADDITIONS.  349 

to  interest  him.  Those  highly-seasoned  ingredients  that 
enter  into  the  food  that  alone  can  satisfy  his  craving  appe 
tite  would  be  missed  here.  The  stimulating  influences 
were  not  to  be  found.  Yet  that  does  not  by  any  means 
argue  that,  to  a  healthy  heart,  even  such  little  events  as 
transpired  in  Brookboro'  may  not  have  an  interest.  The 
history  of  human  hearts  is  the  same  every  where ;  no 
matter  what  the  sky,  where  the  soil,  or  how  involved  the 
circumstances.  Hope  is  the  same  in  all  alike;  and  so  is 
fear,  and  ambition,  and  passion.  So  that  the  reader  whose 
nature  is  thoroughly  furnished  will  pick  up  in  abundance 
materials  for  enjoyment  even  within  the  precincts  of  a 
country  village  miles  and  miles  away  from  the  reach  of 
metropolitan  influences. 

Brookboro'  had  held  its  own,  as  the  current  phrase  is, 
for  many  and  many  a  year.  Its  head  had  got  to  be  really 
reverend  with  the  marks  of  time.  There  were  many  of 
the  farmers  round  about  who  had  grown  up  with  it  almost, 
their  early  boyhood  reaching  far  back  towards  the  infancy 
of  the  village,  but  not  quite  there.  It  had  always  worn 
the  name  of  being  a  pleasant  and  enlightened  little  place, 
whose  people  dwelt  together  in  as  much  harmony  as  those 
of  any  other.  Strangers  who  wandered  off  the  great  roads 
of  travel,  and  found  their  way  into  our  secluded  nook, 
never  failed  to  carry  off  the  most  agreeable  impressions 
•*  of  us  all  —  of  our  houses  and  those  who  inhabited  them. 
"When  I  think  of  it  at  this  day,  I  am  quite  driven  to  won 
der  why  it  was  we  were  not  made  a  place  of  summer  resort. 


350  OUR  PARISH. 

Possibly,  however,  it  was  for  the  simple  reason  that  people 
did  not  choose  to  "resort"  much  any  where  in  those  days. 
The  movement  is  of  very  recent  origin,  so  far  as  it  is  a 
general  one. 

Years  ago,  during  the  reign  of  the  new  spirit  that  was 
then  stalking  abroad  over  New  England,  and  that  sent  its 
spies  and  emissaries  every  where,  a  little  company  of 
strangers  came  to  examine  the  "  water  privilege "  at  the 
southerly  end  of  the  town.  It  created  no  little  excitement 
through  the  village  and  indeed  throughout  our  entire  bor 
ders.  There  was  a  new  project  on  foot.  The  power  that 
we  had  never  thought  of  chaining,  that  it  might  be  made  to 
do  its  natural  share  of  work  in  the  world,  was  examined, 
and  discussed,  and  computed,  and  calculated  upon,  till  some 
of  us  felt  fairly  ashamed  that  we  had  suffered  such  grand 
advantages  to  lie  unimproved  so  long. 

Great  things  were  promised  ;  and  our  village  rubbed  its 
eyes  and  awoke.  Men,  women,  and  children  seemed  to 
take  a  fair  start  anew. 

The  first  gratifying  intelligence  was  that  a  company 
of  gentlemen,  styling  themselves  in  mercantile  parlance 
"  Messrs.  Belden,  Brown,  &  Co.,"  had  obtained  a  refusal 
of  the  site  for  a  mill  at  the  lower  part  of  the  town,  and 
would  break  ground  for  their  buildings  just  as  soon  as 
their  contract  was  satisfactorily  adjusted. 

Now  speculation  began  in  good  earnest.  I  do  not  mean 
speculation  in  matters  of  marketable  value,  but  in  matters 
of  opinion.  Every  one  at  once  planned  a  palace  for  his 


BKOOKBOEO*  WITH  ADDITIONS.  351 

residence,  and  thought  the  "  new  mills  "  would  bring  along 
the  wealth,  and  distribute  it  freely  and  equally.  Some 
speculated  on  the  great  good  there  would  be  done  for  all 
the  general  interests  of  the  town,  and  what  a  grand  thing 
it  would  be  for  a  market.  It  would  be  close  at  their  elbow 
now.  Some  attempted  to  foresee,  and  actually  thought 
they  did  foresee,  a  spacious  hotel  going  up  instantaneously, 
and  crowds  of  strangers  all  at  once  blocking  up  the  ave 
nues  and  passages.  Some  erected  castles  of  one  kind  in 
their  brain,  and  some  of  another.  All  were  busy  at  castle 
building. 

There  was  no  withstanding  the  force  of  the  popular  cur 
rent  so  soon  as  it  fairly  set  in.  There  was  nothing  more 
preposterous  than  to  think  of  damming  it  up  or  turning  it 
aside.  It  would  take  the  course  of  its  own  natural  chan 
nel.  If  people  chose  to  become  little  less  than  monoma 
niacs,  there  was  no  other  way  but  to  suffer  them  to  act  out 
their  disorder  at  discretion.  It  would  be  likely  best  to 
cure  itself. 

One  would  hardly  have  imagined,  however,  looking  at 
the  subject  soberly,  that  such  plain,  honest,  matter-of-fact 
men  as  our  farmers  would  so  readily  have  been  drawn  into 
this  giddy  maelstrom.  It  was  a  little  astonishing  that  they 
who  had  all  their  lives  fought  bravely  the  battle  against 
any  and  all  innovation  should,  at  this  time,  yield  so  quietly, 
so  without  even  a  protest  or  a  murmur,  at  the  firing  of 
the  very  first  gun  on  the  side  of  the  enemy.  It  looked  not 
altogether  unlike  treason,  In  one  aspect  it  was  treason. 


352  OUR  PARISH. 

But  the  ways  of  human  nature  are  almost  past  finding 
out.  The  human  heart  is  sometimes  only  a  riddle. 
Human  feelings,  like  human  calculations,  are  as  unstable 
as  water. 

In  Mr.  Bard  and  son's  store  men  gathered  regularly,  and 
so  they  did  at  Mr.  Plimton's.  They  perched  themselves 
skilfully  on  the  smooth-worn  counters,  and  there  sat  com 
placently  through  the  long  evenings.  Nothing  was  talked 
of  but  the  "  new  mills."  It  was  the  topic  that  had  hungrily 
swallowed  up  for  the  time  all  others.  Even  boys  freely 
put  their  questions,  and  had  fully  matured  their  opinions. 
To  no  classes  or  ages  was  the  discussion  confined.  All  had 
a  chance  at  it  alike. 

Some  of  the  farmers  who  dropped  in  at  the  stores  to 
"  compare  views,  or  to  elicit  the  very  latest  item  of  specula 
tion,  talked  grandly  of  what  they  would  make  by  it  all. 
They  could  go  to  work  now  and  raise  pigs  and  poultry  in 
good  earnest.  There  would  be  little  fear  that  the  surplus 
of  their  raising  would  find  a  ready  sale.  Some  spoke  of 
it  as  really  affecting  the  question  of  corn,  as  if  the  supplies 
demanded  in  consequence  of  the  erection  of  these  mills 
would  abundantly  repay  them  for  the  venture  of  stocking 
down  double  or  treble  the  former  amount  of  land  in  Indian 
corn.  Eggs  would  be  in  demand,  too  —  yes,  people  could 
not  well  live  without  eggs.  And  the  call  for  butter  would 
be  a  great  deal  louder  cry  than  they  had  ever  heard  before. 
And  so  for  cheese.  And,  in  fact,  so  it  would  be  to  the  end 
of  the  chapter. 


BEOOKBORO'   WITH   ADDITIONS.  353 

Such  a  new  life  as  would  all  at  once  dawn  upon  them ! 
Such  a  great  impetus  as  would  instantly  be  communicated 
to  every  industrial  interest !  So  much  the  oftener  would 
they  be  obliged  to  drive  into  the  village,  and  so  much 
the  oftener  come  in  pleasant  contact  with  their  acquaint 
ance  and  friends  !  If,  as  they  seriously  looked  at  it,  there 
was  any  drawback  to  the  picture,  it  was  because  they 
would  find  their  attention  a  little  distracted  from  purely 
agricultural  avocations,  and  more  and  more  diverted  into 
the  channels  of  trade.  But  they  hoped  this  would  regu 
late  itself.  They  stopped  not  to  deal  very  minutely  in 
calculations,  but  strode  forward  after  the  most  gigantic  and 
colossal  styles.  They  were  fairly  inoculated  with  a  dis 
ease  they  had  never  known  before ;  and  the  only  course 
was  to  suffer  it  to  have  its  natural  run,  without  making 
any  attempts  to  break  it  up. 

And  so  the  stone  dam  at  length  came  to  be  built  over 
the  little  river,  at  the  point  where  for  so  many  years  it  had 
defied  the  curb  and  bit,  and  its  pellucid  waters  grew  gradu 
ally  black  with  mud.  Where  the  troutlet  once  leaped  now 
burrowed  the  speckled  mud  turtle,  diving  down  into  the 
slimy  bosom  of  the  sediment  just  as  soon  as  the  sound  of 
feet  were  any  where  to  be  heard.  "Where  once  the  bril 
liant  cardinal  flowers  displayed  their  blood-red  spires  up 
and  down  the  river,  on  the  shores  and  between  the  crevices 
of  the  rocks,  the  coarse  brake  now  began  to  spread  dense 
ly,  throwing  out  its  long,  serrated  leaves,  as  if  it  would  cover 
every  thing  with  their  green  mantle.  The  lilypad  floated 
23 


854  OUR  PARISH.      . 

its  broad,  leathery  leaves  on  the  surface  of  the  pond ;  and 
yellow  flowers,  rank  and  gaudy,  served  for  cheap-looking 
stars  over  the  bosom  of  the  sluggish  water. 

The  life,  and  animation,  and  soul  of  the  little  stream 
were  all  gone  together.  To  be  sure,  it  atoned  properly 
for  its  long  life  of  idleness  by  bravely  putting  its  shoulder 
now  to  the  wheel  and  turning  out  piles  of  wares  every  day  ; 
but  this  sense  of  utility  somehow  conflicted  strangely  with 
the  old  sense  of  leauty.  It  was  a  difficult  thing  to  recon 
cile  them. 

Undine  left  the  waters,  and  took  away  her  train  with 
her.  All  the  sweet  and  endeared  associations  melted. 
The  great  stone  dam  kept  up  its  steady  drum  and  roar ; 
but  it  was  by  no  means  the  music-like,  liquid  singing  that 
the  little  river  once  made  over  the  rocks,  and  under  the 
shores,  and  away  through  the  arches  of  the  overhanging 
trees.  Where  before  slept  the  very  heart  of  the  shadows, 
stiff  and  unsightly  stumps  were  now  stuck  about,  like  the 
stone  posts  of  the  Giants'  Causeway;  and  among  the 
stumps,  at  low  water,  innumerable  snails  crawled  slowly  in 
the  bed  of  the  mud,  and  staring,  greeneyed  frogs  twanged 
their  deep-sounding  bass,  and  speckled  turtle  hid  them 
selves  from  sight. 

It  seemed  ^really  a  wrong  thing,  this  devastation  of  a 
spot  that  had  so  long  worn  its  modest  renown  for  beauty. 
It  might  easily  be  excused  on  the  plea  of  necessity  and 
the  promise  of  a  greater  usefulness  ;  yet  there  were  many 
hearts  even  in  quiet  old  Brookboro'  that  could  not  bring 


BKOOKBORO'    WITH  ADDITIONS.  355 

themselves  to  the  reality  without  compunctions  and  severe 
regrets. 

After  this  beginning  was  fairly  made,  the  workmen  fell 
to  on  the  buildings.  The  main  edifice  was  of  stone  ;  and  it 
required  not  only  all  the  force  brought  to  the  spot  from  out 
of  town,  but  likewise  much  of  the  disposable  force  of  the 
town  itself,  to  push  on  the  work  to  rapid  completion. 
There  were  several  buildings  to  be  erected  besides  the 
main  one ;  and  all  helped  prolong  the  labor.  And  carpen 
ters  were  busy,  too,  upon  the  dwellings.  There  were  to 
be  several  of  them,  not  only  for  the  families  of  the  mill 
owners,  but  for  the  operatives  likewise ;  and  so  all  along 
between  that  point  and  the  village  proper  little  dwellings 
dotted  the  landscape  and  lined  the  road. 

Day  after  day,  and  week  after  week,  and  month  after 
month  there  went  up  on  the  air  one  continual  sound  of 
"  haw  "  and  "  gee,"  of  hammer  and  plane,  of  hod  carriers 
and  masons,  shovel  and  trowel.  The  spot  wore  the  look 
-of  a  beehive.  The  owners  were  continually  about  the 
grounds,  directing  and  overseeing,  and  still  laboring  to 
carry  to  a  greater  degree  of  perfection  the  plans  originally 
devised.  They  always  produced  no  inconsiderable  stir 
when  they  came  up  into  the  village,  having  the  faculty  of 
filling  the  stores  at  which  they  called  with  a  host  of  eagerly 
inquiring  men. 

Finally  the  work,  or  at  least  the  main  part  of  it,  was 
done.  Brookboro'  had  been  kept  in  a  state  of  great  ex- 


356  OUR   PARISH. 

citement  for  now  nearly  two  years.  It  made  one  who  had 
ever  been  in  town  think  of  the  haste  and  anxiety  displayed" 
at  about  two  o'clock  on  'Change.  But  Brookboro'  seemed 
to  become  more  accustomed  to  it  finally,  and  perhaps  at 
length  grew  to  think  nothing  of  it  at  all.  Yet  it  did  turn 
our  heads  a  little,  and  elevated  our  feelings  of  self-suffi 
ciency,  and  tempted  us  to  speak  rather  boastingly  in  the 
presence  of  our  friends  from  other  towns.  We  were  sub 
ject  to  be  led  of  vanity  quite  as  much  as  people  the  world 
over.  The  peculiarity,  perhaps,  had  not  shown  itself  so 
plainly  before,  because  there  existed  no  sufficient  tempta 
tion. 

At  least  a  dozen  new  families  came  into  that  part  of  the 
town  at  once,  all  dependent  on  the  mills  for  their  subsist 
ence.  Some  of  them  were  better  off  than  others  in  point 
of  pecuniary  possessions  ;  but  all  wrought  in  the  same 
great  establishment  of  industry.  And  in  good  time  these 
few  families  received  accessions  to  their  number ;  so  that 
there  must  have  finally  been  at  least  twenty  of  them  to 
gether. 

Living  in  the  heart  and  centre  of  their  business  occupa 
tions  were  the  families  of  the  proprietors  likewise.  They 
were  people  of  high  respectability  and  superior  intelli 
gence,  especially  the  world's  intelligence.  They  looked 
forward  with  certainty  to  the  accumulation  of  ample  for 
tunes,  and  accordingly  felt  themselves  prospectively  a 
little  in  advance  of  the  honest  and  simple  people  of  our 
parish. 

' 

m 


BKOOKBORO*   WITH  ADDITIONS.  357 

Mrs.  Belden  was  what  we  all  called  at  once  a  "  smart " 
woman,  especially  "  for  business."  She  professed  to  be 
independent  of  every  body.  She  was  very  certain,  at 
least,  that  we  at  the  village  could  teach  her  nothing ;  and 
she  did  not  mean  to  put  herself  in  our  way  for  instruction. 
I  do  not  know  what  else  to  call  it,  unless  I  am  allowed  to 
call  it  "  upstartishness ; "  for  I  am  quite  sure  she  was  a 
good  deal  given  to  playing  off  her  airs  in  our  sight,  and 
did  not  spare  even  such  a  sacred  day  as  Sunday  for  carry 
ing  out  her  purpose. 

Mrs.  Brown  was  after  the  same  pattern,  too,  in  very 
many  points ;  though  in  others  she  was  far  her  superior. 
Coming  from  a  bustling  place  into  so  deep  a  retirement 
as,  for  good  reasons,  they  had  selected,  Mrs.  Browa 
could  not  help  feeling  that  her  past  superior  advantages 
were,  as  matter  of  course,  to  be  set  down  in  the  ac 
count  as  our  special  demerit  and  partial  disgrace.  Not 
so,  however,  thought  we  ;  certainly  not  so  thought  all 
of  us. 

It  was  plain  enough  that  there  were  those  in  Brookboro* 
who  hastened  to  make  their  salams  to  the  new  comers, 
and  that  some  of  them  solicited  their  acquaintance  on 
terms  not  at  all  compatible  with  true  social  equality. 
There  were  found  some  who  did  not  stand  long  to  adjust 
nice  questions  of  self-respect  or  dignity,  but  sacrificed  vol 
untarily  all  their  previous  standing  for  the  single  boon  of 
admission  to  the  new  circle. 


*£ 


358  OUR   PARISH. 

And  pretty  soon  this  new  circle  began  to  assert  its  own 
peculiar  influence  and  authority.  The  leading  families 
from  the  locality  of  the  mills  hired  the  most  conspicuous 
seats  in  the  meeting  house,  and  took  it  upon  themselves  to 
pass  their  judgments  freely  on  all  around  them.  The 
sermons  hardly  escaped  their  keenedged  criticism  ;  and 
the  singing  was  favored  no  more.  People  who  had  lived 
on  for  years  there,  happy  in  the  simple  enjoyments  our 
little  church  choir  so  bountifully  dispensed,  now  for  the 
first  time  in  their  lives  found  that  the  singing  was  "just  no 
singing  at  all."  Mr.  Humphreys,  too,  preached  plainly 
and  practically ;  and  his  warnings,  and  exhortations,  and 
frequent  appeals  were  truly  earnest  in  the  cause  he  had 
espoused  for  his  life.  But  these  strangers  pretended  to  be 
not  altogether  satisfied  with  him.  He  was  a  little  past 
their  fashions.  They  hinted  ominously  of  the  possibility 
of  better  ministers  being  in  the  field.  Then  they  whis 
pered  of  calculations  that  had  been  made  among  them  for 
the  erection  of  a  new  church,  that  should  be  located  nearer 
their  part  of  the  town. 

These  rumors  grew ;  they  were  in  many  mouths.  They 
came  up  into  the  village  itself,  and  walked  boldly,  at  last, 
through  the  street. 

And  there  were  some  who  still  felt  a  little  disaffected 
towards  Mr.  Humphreys  because  of  his  judgment  in  mat 
ters  pertaining  to  the  revival.  They  had  dropped  in  a 
wedge  between  him  and  their  early  affections ;  and  now 


I     * 


BROOKBORO*   WITH  ADDITIONS.  359 

L  * 

the  influence  of  the  people  from  the  mills  was  quite  suffi 
cient  to  drive  that  wedge  still  farther  into  the  cleft.  And 
when  distrust  is  sown  it  springs  up  abundantly ;  and  other 
weeds  come  up  with  it,  too. 

But  the  history  will  finally  explain  itself. 


CHAPTER    XXXI. 

THE    OLD    PARSONAGE. 

SINCE  the  time  when  Mr.  Humphreys  first  went  over  to 
look  about  the  parsonage,  on  that  delicious  morning  in 
spring,  the  spot  had  made  a  great  improvement ;  and  since 
the  time  when  first  he  took  his  youthful  wife  there,  and, 
they  planned  so  enthusiastically  together  concerning  the 
grounds,  marvellous  changes  had  been  made  and  countless 
forms  of  beauty  had  sprung  up. 

"  It's  hardly  possible  for  me  to  believe  dear  old  Ingle 
side  was  what  it  once  was,"  said  the  clergyman,  while  he 
sat  on  his  porch,  with  his  entire  family  gathered  around 
him,  one  evening  in  June.  "  I  cannot  picture  it  any  thing 
different  from  what  it  is  at  this  moment." 

"  If  people  generally  would  only  take  a  little  more  pains, 
have  a  little  more  thought,  regard  but  a  trifle  more  the 
very  first  principles  of  taste,  I  fancy  the  changes  about 
many  a  dwelling,  now  rude  and  uninviting,  would  be  quite 
as  much  a  subject  of  wonder  as  this.  The  first  point  is,  to 
cultivate  the  sense  of  beauty  we  all  have." 

(360) 


. 


THE    OLD   PARSONAGE.  361 


"Yes;  and  that  is  to  win  the  whole  battle.  In  these 
matters,  I  find  that  the  difficulty  lies  in  taking  the  first  step. 
Whoever  takes  that  will  be  sure  to  take  the  next ;  and 
then  the  way  is  clear  enough." 

"  And  some  never  do  that." 

"  No  ;  they  have  no  inducements ;  or  they  think,  at 
£  least,  they  have  none." 

"Which  I  very  much  doubt,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Hum 
phreys.  "All  feel  a  natural  love  for  beatgy;  they  pay 
^espect  to  it ;  their  actions  and  their  words  confess  to  the 
depth  of  the  feeling." 

"  Well,  then,  this  very  inclination  of  the  soul  to  objects 
of  beauty  is  an  inducement  of  itself;  and  no  very  mean 
one,  either.  Who  can  deny  it  ?  " 

"  It  seems  so,  certainly." 

"Just  look  at  some  of  the  farm  houses  in  this  town," 
went  on  Mr.  Humphreys.  "  There  they  stand,  just  as  they 
stood  the  day  when  the  carpenter  gathered  up  his  tools 
and  left  them  for  finished.  I  .do  not  make  the  least  objec 
tion  to  their  standing,  nor  to  their  standing  in  exactly  the 
spot  they  first  occupied  ;  that  is  not  the  point.  But  I  do 
say,  as  I  certainly  think,  that  improvements  might  have 
been  going  on  since  that  long-ago  time.  The  places  might 
have  added  a  little  to  their  beauty  in  all  that  period." 

"  That,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Humphreys,  acquiescingly. 

"  Home  is  not  simply  a  house.  A  roof  and  a  dry  room  do 
not  comprise  the  whole  matter.  The  heart  must  be  concerned, 
and  concerned  more  than  any  thing  else ;  and  how  much 


362  OUR   PARISH. 

more  deeply  are  its  best  and  richest  feelings  moved  when 
there  is  every  thing  to  excite  them  all !  You  may  say  truly 
that  there  is  nothing  in  particular  in  a  tree,  or  a  shrub,  or 
a  vine  worthy  of  calling  forth  such  manifestations  of  feel 
ing.  There  is  not ;  although  a  beautiful  tree,  or  a  graceful 
shrub,  or  a  luxuriant  vine  is  an  object  well  calculated  to 
challenge  our  regard.  Yet  when  these  things  are  made  to 
intwine  themselves  around  places  we  love  as  we  naturally 
love  home,  the  thoughts  of  them  likewise  intwine  them 
selves  around  our  tenderest  thoughts  of  home.  They  grow 
into  our  very  hearts.  We  clothe  them  with  our  feelings 
just  as  much  as  we  clothe  home  itself  with  them.  And 
they  all  come  at  last  to  form  but  one  endeared  picture." 

The  evening  was  very  fine,  with  a  round  moon  rising  in 
the  east  that  threw  down  latticed  shadows  across  the  floor 
of  the  little  porch  at  their  feet.  Nothing  could  be  more 
deliciously  fragrant  than  the  atmosphere,  laden  with  drift 
ing  perfumes  that  slowly  sailed  hither  and  thither  on  every 
changing  current.  Especially  was  the  odor  from  the  lilac 
bushes,' at  the  corner  of  the  house,  delightful.  It  seemed 
as  if  it  were  newly  crushed  out  from  the  purple  and  pink 
flowers  that  adorned  the  clumps  of  green  every  where  in 
massive  spiked  bunches,  and  were  scattered  lavishly  in  all 
directions. 

The  front  yard,  that  lay  between  the  house  and  the  gate, 
was  quite  all  they  had  once  hoped  to,make  it,  and  perhaps 
a  little  more.  The  grass,  that  made  the  soft  and  welcome 
carpeting  for  their  own  and  their  children's  feet,  could  by 


THE    OLD    PARSONAGE.  363 

no  possibility  be  fresher  or  greener.  The  fir,  and  pine, 
and  spruce  trees  Mr.  Humphreys  had  with  his  own  hand 
set  out  had  grown  to  be  stout  and  sinewy,  and  in  the  sil 
very  light  of  this  moon  looked  as  if  the  darker  shadows 
were  brooding  within  their  abundant  branches.  Just  a 
little  moisture,  like  early  dew,  glistened  over  the  grass 
blades,  making  a  round  little  moon  in  every  drop.  The 
larger  fruit  trees,  that  had  of  late  years  forced  themselves 
along,  were  dressed  out  in  splendid  and  luxuriant  liveries 
of  leaves,  among  which  cherries  and  plums  were  slowly 
beginning  to  mature ;  and  the  shadows  they  made  across 
the  grass  and  upon  the  side  of  the  house  quite  inspired  the 
heart  with  an  idea  of  companionship. 

"  This  is  beautiful,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Humphreys,  his  sen 
sitive  soul  enjoying  it  all  with  high  ardor.  "Beautiful 
indeed  !  I  cannot  help  repeating  the  Scripture  words  of 
praise  at  such  a  season  and  such  an  hour  as  this :  '  He 
hath  made  every  thing  beautiful  in  its  time.' " 

"  Could  money  purchase  delights  such  as  this  ? "  said 
Mrs.  Humphreys,  looking  straight  into  the  face  of  the 
moon. 

"  No  money  could.  These  secret  and  sweet  delights  are 
not  to  be  trafficked  in.  Only  the  rightly-attuned  heart  and 
the  properly-cultivated  nature  can  enjoy  them.  And  such 
may  enjoy  them  freely.  And  that  brings  up  to  me  again 
a  thought  or  a  fancy  I  have  often  had :  Why  am  not  I  as 
much  an  owner  of  lands  and  estates  every  where  as  they 
who  hold  only  the  title  deeds  ?  The  proprietors  can  pro- 


364  OTJR  PARISH. 

duce  their  authority  for  possession,  I  know ;  but  what  is 
their  possession  ?  " 

"  The  privilege  of  hoeing,  and  digging,  and  ploughing  in 
their  land,"  answered  his  wife. 

"  Yes,  and  that  is  quite  all.  The  owner  may  have  the 
fruits  of  his  labor,  for  to  them  he  is  entitled.  They  feed 
his  appetites.  But  he  is  not  therefore  alone  privileged  to 
enjoy  the  charming  landscapes  they  make.  He  is  not 
peculiarly  entitled  to  the  right  of  enjoying  the  rich  effects 
of  sunshine  and  shadow,  as  they  chase  each  other  across 
his  outstretched  fields.  He  may,  if  you  please,  assert  his 
right  in  even  a  matter  like  this  ;  but  what  if  he  is  not  able 
to  enjoy  ?  "What  if  he  has  no  cultivation  of  soul  ?  Then 
of  what  value  is  his  possession  ?  Of  just  none  at  all." 

The  children  were  giving  excellent  attention. 

"Npw,"  said  their  father,  "though  I  do  not  happen 
to  own  myself  a  rood  of  land  back  on  those  hills,  yet  I 
suppose  they  are  capable  of  affording  me  quite  as  much 
enjoyment  as  they  do  some  of  the  owners  of  that  land, 
and  perhaps  more.  I  may  stroll  over  them  in  the  flush 
of  the  early  morning  or  the  glow  of  the  gorgeous  sunset. 
There  is  nothing  to  hinder  me,  for  I  injure  nothing  and  I 
carry  away  nothing.  I  do  not  have  to  go  through  the  toil 
and  anxiety,  either,  of  cultivating  that  land,  nor  of  striving, 
year  in  and  year  out,  to  make  its  produce  equal  what  I  lay 
out  upon  it.  All  this  part  of  its  care  —  the  care  that  inva 
riably  goes  with  the  ownership  —  I  am  free  from.  Yet  I 
can  enjoy  all  the  rich  scenery  I  find  there.  I  am  not 


THE   OLD   PARSONAGE.  365 

i 

debarred  the  privilege  of  seeing  delightful  pictures,  such 
as  only  the  hand  of  the  Almighty  can  make,  wherever 
I  may  be  able  to  find  them.  •  No  man  can  prevent  me, 
be  he  owner  or  not.  What  I  possess  is  property  that  all 
souls  may  hold  in  common.  It  is  as  free  as  the  sunlight, 
as  the  air  we  breathe,  as  the  sky  we  look  dreamily  into. 
A  man  without  a  dollar  can  own  it  all ;  but  he  must  have 
sensibilities  such  as  fit  him  to  enjoy  it,  or  his  property 
becomes  of  no  sort  of  value  to  him." 

"  It  is  strange,"  observed  his  wife,  "  how  few  there  are, 
comparatively,  who  think  of  these  things ;  as  if  the  whole 
of  life  were  compassed  in  getting  a  sufficiency  for  the  real 
necessities  of  the  body." 

u  So  it  is  strange.  But  it  will  continue  to  be  so  just  as 
long  as  men  delude  themselves  in  running  this  swift  and 
breathless  race  after  money.  Only  money  —  nothing  but 
money !  —  the  standard,  the  measure, J;he  limit  of  all  things. 
Moral  character  laid  down  in  the  dirt  by  the  side  of  it, 
and  stretched  or  shortened  until  it  is  made  to  bear  some 
adequate  and  convenient  proportion.  The  most  sacred 
feelings  desecrated  by  its  contact.  The  sense  of  beauty 
entirely  deadened  by  its  merely  metallic  glitter.  The  eyes 
of  the  soul  blinded  by  its  flashing  light.  It  is  strange, 
truly." 

"  But  yet  the  better  principles  are  alive  ;  men  are  to  be 
found  here  and  there  who  know  how  to  cherish  them,  and 
know  full  well  what  they  are  worth,  too." 

"  O,  yes ;  but  these  persons  are  not  strong  enough  yet 


366  OUR  PARISH. 

in  numbers  to  wield  an  influence  that  shall  leaven  the  mass. 
"We  must  be  patient.  These  things  mature  with  time. 
And  I  have  full  faith  to  believe  that,  as  these  natures  of 
ours  are  made  and  gifted,  men  will  eventually  have  their 
inner  eyes  opened.  These  gorgeous  sights  are  by  no 
means  to  be  thrown  away.  They  were  spread  out  for  some 
good  purpose.  They  were  intended  to  help  on  the  gracious 
work  of  the  Creator  of  all,  and  fill  us  more  and  more  with 
overflowing  love  for  him.  They  do  not  add  at  all  to  his 
happiness  or  his  glory ;  but  he  has  stretched  them  out  for 
US)  as  if  he  were  unrolling  a  vast  panorama  before  us. 
They  are  all  for  our  own  eyes,  and  their  high  influences 
are  for  our  hearts.  And  he  who  has  learned  their  true 
use,  and  knows  how  to  receive  their  influences  rightly  into 
his  nature,  is  already  far  in  advance  of  his  fellows  in  at 
least  one  branch  of  his  moral  education.  If  a  man  refines 
his  tastes  he  has  certainly  begun  the  work  of  reformation, 
although  I  will  not  pretend  to  say  he  has  begun  as  and 
where  he  should.  Yet  if  he  goes  forward  even  this  single 
step,  he  cannot  go  backwards  again.  The  faculty  of  un 
learning  what  is  so  native  to  its  inborn  propensities  the 
human  heart  hardly  possesses.  What  it  has  got  it  grasps 
tightly,  it  keeps.  Other  influences  may  for  a  time  here 
overlie  and  incrust  these  refined  and  lofty  influences ;  but 
still  the  fires  of  the  first  feeling  will  now  and  then  break 
out  through  all  this  rubbish,  and  jet  up  into  the  light  with 
all  the  glory  of  a  brilliant  flame.  And  this  flame  heats  the 
heart  wonderfully  all  through  the  life.  If  duty  immures 


THE    OLD    PARSONAGE.  367 

one  within  close  walls,  where  not  so  much  as  a  glimpse  of 
natural  beauty  is  to  be  found  to  feed  the  hungering  heart, 
still  this  very  appetite  within  prevents  the  drudgery  of 
daily  life  from  palling  on  the  nature.  It  will  present  your 
mind  with  beautiful  pictures  when  to  the  eye  all  seems 
bare  and  hard.  It  is  a  half  angel  in  our  bosoms,  and  all 
the  time  it  is  pointing  with  its  slender  finger  upward  to 
God." 

If  a  stranger  had  passed  along  the  village  street  that 
evening,  the  moon  now  risen  up  into  the  sky,  and  let  his 
eyes  fall  on  that  happy  group  thus  gathered  on  the  old 
parsonage  porch,  he  would  have  thought  it  a  picture  worth 
treasuring  in  his  heart  for  a  long  time.  If  Mr.  Humphreys 
himself  experienced  such  a  rapturous  glow  of  feeling  while 
sitting  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  vine  and  the  tree  his  own 
hand  had  planted,  and  could  communicate  any  share  of  it 
by  his  earnest  words  to  the  little  group  he  loved,  how  much 
more  would  the  outward  and  casual  beholder  be  enchanted 
with  its  pictured  dream  of  home  blessedness,  and  hope 
himself  some  time  to  drift  into  just  such  a  sweet  and  quiet 
nook ! 

The  old  mansion  had  several  times  been  painted  since 
its  occupancy  by  the  clergyman's  family ;  but  by  this  time 
its  hue  had  gradually  become  brown  and  neutral  again. 
The  vine,  that  had  at  first  been  ambitious  seemingly  to 
climb  only  by  the  pillars  of  the  little  porch,  had  twisted 
itself  round  and  round  the  posts,  and  gone  agilely  up  to 
the  cornices,  and  stretched  a  dainty  green  ruffle  across  the 

r 


868  OUR   PARISH. 

eaves  and  the  gable,  thatching  the  whole  with  its  innumer 
able  leaves.  The  porch  alone  looked  like  a  natural  temple, 
where  often  did  the  good  clergyman  and  his  family  assem 
ble  for  their  hearts'  silent  worship.  After  scaling  this  low 
and  diminutive  roof,  it  took  a  new  start  and  climbed  quite 
to  the  roof  above  the  windows,  holding  on  bravely  by  the 
clapboards  and  shingles.  And  so  here  and  there  were  to 
be  seen  dark  patches  of  leaves,  among  which  were  clustered 
groups  of  red  and  white  and  purple  flowers,  that  looked 
like  islands  of  beauty  sleeping  in  a  sea  of  emerald ;  and 
all  showed  so  charmingly  and  so  picturesquely,  too,  against 
the  plane  of  the  parsonage  front,  in  the  brilliant  light  of 
this  burning  moon,  that  little  might  be  the  wonder  if  even 
they  who  had  known  every  beauty  about  it  for  years  should 
again  be  enraptured  as  they  had  been  many  a  time  before. 
Some  of  the  fruit  trees  behind  the  house,  apple  and  pear 
trees,  had  decayed  and  been  removed  since  the  bright 
spring  morning  when  Mr.  Humphreys  stood  there  and 
thoughtfully  regarded  the  spot ;  but  others,  more  vigorous 
and  thrifty,  had  sprung  up  where  they  stood,  and  shook 
down  annually  their  soft  showers  of  white  and  red  blos 
soms.  Other  and  familiar  paths,  worn  by  children's  loved 
feet,  too,  streaked  the  little  garden,  and  the  little  orchard 
especially,  carrying  the  thoughts  pleasantly  backward  to 
the  white  and  innocent  days  that  make  such  a  delightful 
canopy  over  the  head  of  childhood.  And  there  was  a  low 
gap  in  the  old  stone  wall  that  served  as  a  sort  of  stijp  for 
them  to  climb  over  into  the  adjoining  patch  of  meadow 


j-  '         *' 

THE   OLD   PARSONAGE.  369 

land.  Many  and  many  a  time  had  the  affectionate  father 
stood  at  that  spot  and  let  his  feelings  and  memories  run 
back  with  him  wherever  they  would,  especially  to  the 
former  times  when  his  youthful  prattlers  were  just  begin 
ning  to  tottle  and  run  about  his  feet  as  he  strolled  thought 
fully  through  the  garden  grounds. 

From  a  deserted  look,  the  whole  place  had  suddenly  put 
on  a  look  of  life.  It  seemed  as  if  it  really  had  feelings 
and  sentiments  of  its  own,  just  as  it  had  fond  memories 
clustered  about  it  and  garnered  in  its  nooks,  and  corners, 
and  chambers.  Where  formerly  the  shutter  idly  flapped 
in  the  rising  wind,  and  the  tree  bough  creaked  against  the 
side  of  the  house,  or  perhaps  the  night  owl  took  the  liberty 
to  hoot  so  dismally  half  through  the  summer  nights,  now 
went  up  all  the  sounds  and  voices  of  jubilant  life,  without 
dreary  echoes,  without  saddening  associations,  and  with 
cheering  and  inspiriting  influences. 

Ingleside  was  a  real  home  nest.  The  nestlings,  too, 
'  were  getting  large  and  restless.  They  would  soon  be  think 
ing  of  taking  flight  now.  They  were  crowded  together 
too  closely,  and  even  now  were  getting  ready  to  control 
separate  circles  of  influence  that  should  yearly  grow  wider 
and  wider.  Alfred  was  quite  a  young  man.  He  had 
hitherto  acquitted  himself  with  distinguished  credit  at  the 
academy,  bearing  away  honors  and  preferences  almost  as 
readily  as  his  own  father  had  done  before  him  in  his  col- 
'  lege  days. 

Mr.  Humphreys  was  debating  in  his  mind  the  propriety 
24 


370  CUE  PARISH. 

of  making  the  unaided  effort  to  send  him  to  college.  The 
youth  gave  promise  of  much  excellence  and  piety  of  char 
acter,  and  his  father's  heart  had  been  rather  set  on  his 
becoming  a  dispenser  of  the  precious  truths  contained  in 
the  gospel  of  Christ ;  but  if  obstacles  were  to  arise  in  the 
path  of  his  plans  such  as  he  might  have  any  fears  of  sur 
mounting,  he  felt  that  he  could  not  but  regret  having 
arrived  at  his  judgment  hastily. 

Outwardly  and  inwardly  considered,  therefore,  few  places 
the  country  round  could  furnish  a  more  perfect  picture  of 
happiness  and  contentment  than  Ingleside.  It  roofed  in  its 
own  peculiar  cares  and  anxieties,  to  be  sure ;  but  what 
earthly  nook,  be  it  never  so  quiet  and  peaceful,  does  not  ? 
It  had  its  individual  seasons  of  sunshine  and  shadow,  as  so 
all  other  places  have ;  and  stern  duty  issued  its  mandates 
to  the  inhabitants,  just  as  it  issued  them  to  hearts  situated 
every  where ;  but  yet  the  spirit  of  love  and  contentment 
brooded  over  all,  and  permeated  all,  and  clothed  every  one 
with  its  most  beautiful  garment. 


CHAPTER    XXXII. 

A    SCENE    IN    A    BELFRY. 

HARVEY  KNELL  was  the  sexton  for  Brookboro' ;  and 
a  very  faithful  sexton  he  had  been  for  many  a  year. 

He  was  —  to  attempt  a  sort  of  hasty  description  of  him 
—  a  man  now  verging  upon  fifty  years,  rather  short  in 
stature,  with  a  head  partly  bald,  and  the  hair  brushed  has 
tily  up  on  either  side  towards  the  crown,  having  lost  two 
fingers  entirely  on  his  left  hand,  and  generally  wearing  a 
coat  much  too  spacious  for  his  somewhat  thin  figure  when 
he  wore  one  at  all. 

Almost  any  where  else,  in  a  large  crowd,  for  example, 
he  would  not,  that  I  know,  be  particularly  remarked.  He 
certainly  did  not  possess  any  noticeable  personal  qualities ; 
that  is,  judging  by  the  standard  applied  to  promiscuous 
assemblies ;  and  yet,  take  him  as  a  member  of  our  little 
country  parish,  and  find  the  exact  place  he  had  secured 
and  so  long  had  occupied  in  our  regard  and  opinion,  and 

»    watch  narrowly  the  various  little  peculiarities  and  idiosyn 
crasies  that  went  to  make  up  the  somewhat  mosaic  work 
(371) 


372  OUR  PAEISH. 

he  would  have  seen  fit  to  denominate  his  character,  and 
Mr.  Harvey  Knell  immediately  stepped  forward  into  a 
consideration  that  lent  him  quite  all  the  importance  he 
could  himself 'have  desired. 

He  pretended  partly  to  own  the  low-roofed,  fed  house  in 
which  he  lived  with  his  aged  mother ;  and,  in  truth,  proba 
bly  did  at  sundry  past  times  invest  in  it  some  trifling  accu 
mulations  of  his  savings.  Beyond  this,  it  was  impossible 
to  know  for  a  long  time  what  he  did  do  with  his  money. 

For  many  years  he  had  followed  the  calling  of  a  com 
mon  day  laborer.  There  was  work  enough  to  be  done 
around  the  village,  in  among  the  yards,  and  orchards,  and 
gardens  ;  and  when  that  did  not  press,  there  was  demand 
for  such  as  he  among  the  farmers,  especially  in  the  plant 
ing  and  haying  seasons,  and  sometimes  at  harvesting,  too, 
Unless  he  preferred,  —  and  he  did  not,  —  he  need  never 
be  idle.  There  was  always  occupation  for  him. 

Mr.  Humphrey^  hired  him  to  "  make "  his  garden  for 
him,  following  up  the  labor  of  the  beginning  with  his  own 
Irregular  and  more  tasteful  labor.  There  was  nowhere  to 
be  found  a  better  hand ;  and  that  was  the  universal  testi 
mony.  Mr.  Bard  invariably  hired  him,  too,  every  spring,  — 
and  Mr.  Bard  was  as  particular  about  his  yards  as  any 
man  need  be,  —  and  so  did  Mr.  Wilkinson,  and  Dr.  Jen 
nings,  and  others  I  need  not  here  take  the  trouble  to  men 
tion.  In  fact,  Harvey  Knell,  whatever  he  might  be  es 
timated  in  crowds  greater  than  we  of  Brookboro'  had  the 
ability  to  gather,  was  considered  really  "  a  character  "  with 
us,  especially  a  useful  character. 


A  SCENE  IN  A  BELFRY.  373 

He  was  industrious  and  he  was  frugal.  To  labor  he 
esteemed  his  proper  vocation  in  common  with  the  rest. 
To  save,  to  accumulate,  to  provide,  if  possible,  against  the 
dark  days  that  might  come,  —  that  seemed  to  be  his  chief 
worldly  ambition. 

He  had  succeeded  in  laying  away  something  —  so  it 
was  afterwards  ascertained — when  first  the  project  of 
erecting  mills  below  the  village  was  talked  of;  how  much, 
no  one  exactly  knew.  It  happened  fortunately  to  be  one 
of  those  unsettled  topics,  purely  contingent  in  their  con 
clusions,  over  which  speculating  and  inquisitive  dispositions 
had  full  license  to  busy  themselves  as  long  as  they  would ; 
and  they  exercised  the  whole  of  their  prerogative. 

When,  however,  the  operations  in  the  mills  had  once 
fairly  commenced,  a  little  store  in  the  immediate  neighbor 
hood  was  talked  of  by  some  one,  who  managed  quite  as 
slyly  to  get  the  ear  of  Harvey  Knell.  There  was  room 
for  a  great  business  there.  Property  must  rise  in  value, 
certainly.  There  were  customers  enough  in  that  vicinity 
already  to  warrant  the  opening  of  a  store.  There  should 
be  a  store,  and  at  once. 

And  so  one  was  built ;  a  little  affair,  though  of  an  ambi 
tion  far  outmeasuring  its  dimensions. 

Mr.  Godfrey  was  its  proprietor  —  a  stranger  thereabouts, 
yet  possessing  the  gift  of  ingratiating  himself  very  readily 
into  some  natures ;  and  one  of  these  natures  happened  to 
be  Harvey  Knell's. 

Mr.  Godfrey  took  his  newly-made  friend  by  the  button 


874  OUR  PARISH. 

hole  and  talked  the  whole  plan  and  project  into  his  com 
prehension.  If  the  sexton  could  not  understand  that,  he 
never  could  be  expected  to  understand  any  thing.  But  he 
did  understand  it ;  and  he  believed  it  all,  too ;  and  what 
was  still  more,  his  belief  was  not  of  that  character  that 
wrought  on  him  with  no  show  of  practical  effect.  On  the 
contrary,  he  was  so  far  convinced  of  the  perfect  feasibility 
of  Mr.  Godfrey's  mercantile  plans  that  he  willingly  put  in 
his  entire  fortune  of  four  hundred  dollars  into  the  common 
treasury,  and  so  at  once  embarked  in  business  as  a  sort  of 
silent  and  unseen  partner. 

It  was  all  between  themselves.  The  secret  was  kept, 
and  no  one  knew  it.  The  seductive  trader  proposed  this 
as  the  best  policy,  and  gave  Harvey  for  his  four  hundred 
dollars  his  own  single  note  and  a  weak  kind  of  lien  on  his 
actual  stock  in  trade.  And  now,  he  said  encouragingly  to 
the  hopeful  sexton,  we  will  see  what  is  to  hinder  our  get 
ting  rich  off  this  great  stone  mill  as  well  as  the  rest  of 
them.  And  the  sexton  lay  patiently  in  wait  for  his  profits. 

It  was  quite  an  undertaking ;  so  thought  Harvey  Knell. 
In  it  he  had  hopefully  embarked  the  whole  of  his  earthly 
fortune.  By  it  he  confidingly  calculated  on  quick  returns 
and  an  easy  chance  for  the  balance  of  his  natural  life. 

A  man  thus  excited,  with  so  much  at  stake,  his  mind 
continually  on  the  stretch  in  studying  and  planning,  in 
hoping  and  fearing,  without  doubt  is  in  a  state  bordering 
somewhere  on  the  confines  of  the  territory  known  nowadays 
as  monomania.  He  may  not  be  thought  in  such  a  state  by 


A   SCENE   IN   A   BELFRY.  875 

those  who  are  supposed  to  know  him  best ;  he  may  not 
even  suspect  it  of  himself.  Still  it  is  very  possible  that 
the  fact  is  established. 

Now,  Harvey  Knell  fell  off  from  his  other  work  to  give 
himself  a  little  time  to  attend  to  this.  He  lounged  in  the 
little  store  by  the  hour ;  a  thing  he  had  not,  his  life  through, 
been  in  the  habit  of  doing  before  any  where.  Indolence 
began  slowly  to  sap  the  strength  of  his  energies,  and  he 
grew  irredeemably  lazy.  It  was  a  sudden  change,  and  it 
was  a  great  one.  Yet  it  was  nevertheless  true.  Harvey 
Knell  was  hardly  the  man  he  had  been.  His  old  charac 
ter  had  faded  —  was  already,  some  thought,  beginning  to 
depart. 

If  now  a  man  wanted  his  services  in  the  old  way,  per 
haps  he  might  have  them,  and  perhaps  he  might  not.  It 
was  entirely  a  matter  of  chance ;  and  that  chance  turned 
just  on  the  state  in  which  his  feelings  might  happen  at  that 
time  to  be.  He  still  held  to  the  office  of  sexton,  in  which 
he  wore  the  laurels  of  many  long  years.  No  complaint 
was  made  of  him  in  the  respect  of  its  duties.  He  seemed 
to  hold  them  in  a  higher  regard  than  ordinary  avocations, 
as  if  he  might,  in  his  own  innocent  way,  invest  them  with 
associations  of  a  half  religious  character.  Regularly  each 
noon,  exactly  as  his  own  true  timekeeper  told  him  it  was 

\  twelve,  he  pulled  at  the  rope  that  sent  the  old  bell  a-swinging 
in  the  belfry  above ;  and  regularly,  too,  each  night,  as  nine 
o'clock  came  round,  or  eight  o'clock  on  Saturday  evening, 

^  he  set  the  bell  a-rolling  on  its  axis  again.     He  came  to  be 


376  OUR  PAEISH. 


associated  with  the  meeting  house  as  a  part  of  the  very 
building.  "When  one  met  him  on  the  street,  it  nat 
urally  called  up  the  Sunday  thoughts  that  clustered 
about  the  church.  He  had  a  way  of  holding  his  head 
downward  and  a  little  on  one  side,  as  he  walked,  that 
of  itself  was  irresistible.  It  consisted  of  about  one  half 
real  humility  and  the  other  half  habit,  or  as  near  that  as 
might  be.  And  he  rolled  up  his  eyes  at  you,  rather  than 
turned  them  up,  showing  off  the  whites  of  them  to  excellent 
advantage,  besides  impressing  you  with  thoughts  sometimes 
that  you  would  not  care  to  tell. 

He  jobbed  about  enough  to  live,  and  that  was  all.  The 
rest  of  his  time  went  into  the  store  in  whose  establishment 
he  had  so  largely  —  I  now  think  so  entirely  —  assisted. 
He  sat  in  a  chair  just  behind  the  door,  and  watched  the 
coming  in  of  customers  as  a  spider  watches  for  flies.  He 
kept  busy  while  he  lay  in  wait  there,  calculating  the  profits 
and  losses  and  the  innumerable  chances  of  both.  He  sat 
and  dreamed  away  the  hours,  whistling  or  whittling,  spit 
ting  at  knots  of  flies  that  gathered  in  the  sun  on  the  floor, 
during  summer,  or  roasting  himself  over  the  very  hot  iron 
box  stove  in  winter. 

In  truth,  Harvey  Knell  was  in  no  single  respect  what  he 
once  was.  Inconsiderable  as  any  one  might  have  chosen 
to  estimate  his  character  before,  it  was  really  much  more 
inconsiderable  now.  He  was  but  the  ghost  of  his  former 
self.  He  was  a  shadow,  especially  in  his  traits  of  mind. 
In  short,  trade  had  ruined  him. 


A   SCENE   IN  A  BELFRY.  377 


Ah,  so  it  had  —  so  it  had.  Ruined  him  in  a  style  that 
he,  poor  man !  thought  of  far  more  import  than  any  other. 

He  came  down  through  the  village  one  morning,  —  it 
was  in  December,  —  and  the  first  person  who  accosted  him 
was  Mr.  Pratt,  one  of  the  workmen  at  the  mills. 

"  Good  morning,  Harvey,"  said  he.  "  Heard  the  news, 
I  s'pose." 

"News?    No.     What?" 

"  O,  nothing.     Only  Godfrey's  broke  —  that's  all." 

"  Godfrey  —  broke  —  failed,  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked 
Harvey,  his  face  deathly  pale. 

"  Yes,  all  gone ;  so  they  say.  But  I  can't  stop ;  in  a 
hurry,  you  know." 

"  Stay,  stay,"  pleaded  the  poor  sexton.  And  for  a  brief 
moment  the  man  halted,  while  Harvey  Knell  held  on  with 
a  tight  grasp  upon  his  coat  collar. 

"  What  made  him  ?  Tell  me  all  about  it.  No  —  no  ; 
I'll  go  down  and  get  the  partic'lars  out  of  him  myself." 

The  poor  man  was  burning  up  with  the  heat  of  his 
feelings.  He  was  an  object  of  downright  pity. 

"  But  what  if  you  do  go  down  ?  "  said  the  other.  "  You 
can't  get  in.  And  if  you  could,  you  couldn't  see  him" 

"  Why  not  ?     Say." 

*'  Because  his  store's  locked  up,  and  he's  cleared  no 
body  knows  where.  But  I  must  be  off.  You'll  hear  the 
whole  of  it,  most  likely." 

And  the  two  men  separated.  But  during  that  very  brief 
conversation  one  poor,  simple,  trusting  heart  had  lost  its 


378  OUR   PARISH. 

anchor,  and  went  drifting  off  all  over  tne  ocean  wherever 
the  waves  and  winds  of  fear  might  drive. 

It  was  even  as  Mr.  Pratt  had  communicated.  He  had 
told  the  truth ;  but  it  was  not  the  whole  truth,  such  as  it 
was  made  to  enter  the  mind  of  Harvey  Knell. 

The  latter's  case  came  to  be  known  generally  very  soon 
— the  full  extent  of  his  risks,  his  anxieties,  and  his  final 
losses.  Now  it  was  understood  a  little  better  why  he  had 
latterly  grown  so  changed  in  his  ways.  The  key  being  at 
last  obtained,  it  was  easy  to  unlock  the  real  secret. 

The  poor  man  rang  his  bell  at  noon,  one  day,  just  as  he 
had  rung  it  for  years.  In  the  afternoon  he  sat  and  pon 
dered  on  the  chances  there  were  before  him.  Only  his 
mother  sat  with  him,  and  she  said  little  or  nothing.  One 
was  on  one  side  of  the  fireplace  and  the  other  on  the  other. 
The  logs  blazed  between  them,  and  the  flames  jetted  to 
wards  them,  and  the  sparks  now  and  then  snapped  out  on 
the  broad  stone  hearth.  Harvey  sat  absorbed  in  thought. 
He  had  been  brooding  over  his  great  loss  in  this  way 
for  many  days ;  but  on  this  day  he  seemed  gloomier 
than  ever. 

The  afternoon  sun  lay  sadly  across  the  rug  carpet  that 
covered  the  floor  —  a  wintry  sun,  that  helped  on  the 
wretched  man  with  his  dark  fancies.  The  hour  for  supper 
arrived.  He  watched  his  mother,  as  she  went  about  setting 
the  few  dishes  on  the  table,  his  eyes  mechanically  following 
every  movement.  He  sat  up  to  the  table  at  last,  but  ate 
nothing.  The  cup  of  tea  was  left  untouched. 


A   SCENE   IN   A   BELFRY.  379 

"  What's  the  matter,  Harvey  ? "  asked  his  mother. 
"You  aren't  well,  I  know." 

He  merely  shook  his  head,  and  dropped  his  eyes  to  the 
table. 

Again  he  crept  to  his  corner,  and  awaited  the  hour  of 
nine.  He  kept  pulling  out  his  watch  as  if  he  were  uneasy 
for  the  time  to  come.  As  the  light  of  the  fire  faintly  glim 
mered  about  him,  throwing  out  his  features  into  a  strong 
relief,  and  shining  brightly  over  the  smooth,  bald  crown  of 
his  head,  and  as  his  gray  eyes  grew  still  grayer  and  more 
staring  while  he  looked  in  the  fire  and  brooded  over  his 
melancholy  fancies,  he  was  a  person  worthy  of  a  particular 
study.  Now  and  then  his  aged  mother  bestowed  on  him 
a  long  and  thoughtful  look,  as  if  she  felt  that  some  secret 
trouble  had  fastened  its  fangs  on  his  heart,  and  she  could 
not  understand  it ;  but  he  did  not  regard  her  attentions  at 
all.  He  was  entirely  wrapped  up  in  the  garment  of  his 
own  thoughts.  He  was  preyed  upon  by  a  ravenous  vul 
ture,  that  would  never  let  go  his  peace  of  heart  again. 
And  there,  in  his  solitary  corner,  he  brooded  over  his 
troubles,  perplexed,  how  he  should  be  able  to  solve  the 
mystery. 

There  was  no  solution  to  it.  The  knot  could  not  be 
untied ;  it  must  be  cut ! 

So  he  determined  to  sever  it  at  a  single  blow. 

Drawing  his  great  silver  watch  again  from  his  pocket, 
he  found  it  wanted  already  but  five  minutes  of  nine.  The 
hour  was  close  at  hand.  He  sprang  from  his  flag-bottomed 
chair,  and  put  on  his  hat  to  go  out. 

Nto' 


380  OUR  PARISH. 

"  Where  ? "  asked  his  mother,  looking  up  inquiringly 
at  him. 

"  Time  for  the  bell,"  said  he ;  and  he  passed  out  without 
another  word. 

She  looked  half  longingly  after  him,  and  as  if  she  would 
say  something  more ;  but  he  shut  the  door  so  suddenly,  he 
was  gone  almost  before  she  could  collect  herself. 

The  bell  rang  very  soon.  All  the  village  knew  it  was 
nine  o'clock.  Young  folks  thought  of  going  to  bed,  and 
old  people  were  many  of  them  raking  up  their  fires. 
Round  and  round  swung  the  bell  in  the  steeple,  ringing 
nothing  but  its  one  monotonous  melody:  "Nine  o'clock  I 
nine  —  nine  o'clock  !  " 

Its  sounds  ceased,  floating  away  over  the  air  in  circles, 
each  moment  spreading  wider  and  wider.  He  deliberately 
closed  the  door,  locked  it  on  the  inside,  put  the  key  in  his 
pocket,  and  climbed  the  stairs.  The  moon  threw  in  her 
white  light  through  the  windows,  showing  him  his  way. 

He  reached  the  bell  deck,  and  poked  his  head  up  through 
the  trapdoor.  Pushing  it  back,  he  climbed  to  the  belfry 
and  let  the  door  down  after  him. 

The  lights  were  gleaming  here  and  there  over  the  vil 
lage  street,  and  the  bright  lamps  were  sparkling  in  the 
heavens.  He  looked  over  the  dead  and  dreary  landscape. 
He  tried  to  feel  that  he  was  strong  enough  to  cope  with  his 
troubles.  He  yielded  finally  to  his  despair,  and  gave  a 
deep,  long  groan.  His  eyes  were  every  where  —  were 


A  SCENE  IN  A  BELFRT.  381 

nowhere.     He  saw  nothing  but  his  ruin  — his  utter,  irre 
mediable  ruin. 

*  #                *                *  * 

*  *                *                *  ,  * 

Not  until  Sunday  was  the  search  for  him  successful. 
They  found  him  hanging  by  the  neck  to  one  of  the  strong 
supports  of  the  belL  H6  had  chosen  this  strangest  of  all 
places  to  meet  his  end. 

Poor  Harvey  !    Thy  knell  was  sadly,  sadly  knolled. 


CHAPTER  ^XXXIIL 

A  LITTLE  CLOUD. 

AT  first  it  was  "  no  bigger  than  your  hand."  But  let 
me  begin  and  tell  all  how  it  sprung  up  into  our  sky ;  and 
how  it  grew  large  and  black ;  and  how  it  came  to  stretch 
and  spread  over  us  so  threateningly;  and  how  it  finally 
burst,  driving  us  in  every  direction  for  shelter. 

As  nearly  as  I  ever  knew,  or  as  any  one  could  know,  the 
trouble  began  between  Mr.  Joseph  Bard,  who  had  now 
come  into  pretty  much  the  entire  management  of  his 
father's  business  transactions,  and  Mr.  Plimton.  It  was  all 
about  a  matter  of  trade,  I  believe,  and  might  have  been 
first  engendered  of  a  difference  of  opinion  between  them 
concerning  the  manner  of  Godfrey's  going  off.  It  was 
rumored  that  the  latter  was  a  little  indebted  at  Mr.  Joseph 
Bard's  store  when  he  left. 

But  it  can  hardly  be  traced  to  its  beginning.  Like  a 
river,  it  came  from  a  brook  ;  and  the  brook  started  from  a 
rill ;  and  the  rill  from  a  little  trickling  fountain ;  and  the 
fountain  itself  was  fed  from  the  drops  that  oozed  from  the 

(383) 


A   LITTLE    CLOUD.  883 

yery  heart  of  the  earth.  So  this  difference  gfew  from 
nothing  more  than  the  hidden  and  trifling  feelings  that 
oozed  their  way  out  to  the  surface  in  their  life  and 
conduct. 

Both  Mr.  Plimton  and  Mr.  Joseph  Bard  were  members 
of  the  church,  and  professedly  walked  exemplary  lives. 
They  certainly,  therefore,  should  never  have  given  cause 
of  offence,  nor  proved  stumbling  blocks  to  brethren  weaker 
in  the  faith  than  they  felt  assured  they  were. 

I  am  not  going  to  say  which  was  most  in  fault,  for  such 
discrimination  is  no  part  of  the  work  I  have  herewith  as 
signed  myself.  It  is  free  to  be  concluded,  as  in  all  cases 
of  difference,  that  there  was  quite  fault  enough  on  both 
sides.  It  must  have  been  so  here  certainly;  for  unless 
two  quarrel,  there  can  be  no  difference.  One  can  hardly 
quarrel  with  much  vindictiveness  with  himself. 

Mr.  Bard  would  say  something  highly  derogatory  to  the 
actions  and  character  of  Mr.  Plimton,  and  at  once  the 
rumor  was  borne  to  the  ears  of  the  latter.  A  regular 
telegraphic  line  could  not  have  performed  directer  duty. 
And  so,  on  the  other  side,  if  Mr.  Plimton  had  any  thing 
to  say  in  reply,  rumors  were  ready,  breathless,  with  swift 
tongues,  to  carry  the  earliest  intelligence,  together  with  the 
advantages  of  their  freshest  impressions,  to  the  enemy. 
And  in  this  mode  the  gap  grew  continually  wider.  The 
Bore  did  not  show  any  symptoms  of  healing. 

Added  to  this,  making  the  trouble  greater  and  spread 
ing  the  circle  more  and  more,  each  party  had  individual 


384  OUR   PARISH. 

friends;  knd  these  friends  speedily  came  to  their  relief, 
thinking  their  sympathy  loudly  called  for ;  and  this  feeling 
of  sympathy  was  only  the  match  that  kindled  the  two 
trains  long  laid  —  trains  of  prejudices,  and  enmity,  and 
malice,  such  as  flashed  at  the  application  of  the  match  like 
trains  of  powder  before  the  touch  of  fire. 

Old  Mr.  Bard,  and,  indeed,  the  whole  of  his  family,  too, 
was  not  to  be  driven  from  his  position.  Mr.  Joseph  Bard 
must  be  sustained.  Mr.  Bard,  the  elder,  had  carefully  ab 
stained  from  committing  himself  to  any  public  difference  or 
dispute  with  Mr.  Plimton,  and  so  had  gone  along  pretty 
smoothly  these  many  years;  but  as  soon  as  his  son  came 
into  power,  a  new  spirit  seemed  to  plant  itself  at  the  helm. 
He  was  not  only  more  progressive  than  his  father,  but,  I 
candidly  think,  a  little  more  aggressive,  too.  Like  the 
most  of  young  men,  especially  those  who  happen  to  have 
others  to  start  them  and  hold  them  up  early  in  life,  he  was 
not  at  all  too  considerate,  and  his  prejudices  rather  outran 
the  slower  movements  of  his  judgment. 

Mr.  Plimton  was  very  much  older  than  he ;  but  what 
difference  did  that  make  ?  Mr.  Plimton  had  presumed, 
years  ago,  to  be  sure,  to  come  and  establish  himself  in  busi 
ness  in  the  village,  exactly  in  opposition  to  the  interests 
of  his  father ;  and  even  although  his  father  had  not  seen 
fit  to  make  a  serious  and  chronic  opposition  to  it,  still  it 
was  no  reason  why  the  matter  might  not  be  taken  up  now. 
Mr.  Joseph  Bardjfeft  just  like  it.  He  wanted  to  pay  back, 
as  he  really  deceived  himself,  the  debt  so  long  due.  His 


A   LITTLE    CLOUD.  385 

*' 

*  energies  were  just  in  the  right  condition.  His  spirit  felt 
r  quick,  and  haughty,  and  rather  revengeful.  He  would 
fully  assert  his  family  superiority ;  for  he  could  not  bear  to 
stay  in  the  village  and  have  it  thought  that  any  name  was 
equal  to  the  name  of  Bard !  So  far  did  his  wayward  and 
ignorant  feelings  carry  him. 

Mr.  Bard's  family  all  became  interested  in  the  matter. 
It  would  have  been  next  to  impossible  to  keep  them  out  of 
it.  And  Mrs.  Joseph  Bard — once  Lucy  Burroughs-— 
flamed  up  quite  as  much  as  her  husband.  She  was  fierce  in 
her  feelings.  Ah,  Lucy !  you  had  changed  somewhat  since 
first  your  new  clergyman  drove  up  to  your  father's  door 
and  sat  down  to  an  early  supper  with  you  all.  She  was  as 
thorough  in  what  she  said  as  in  what  she  did.  In  her  re 
marks,  generally,  none  could  surpass  her  for  conciseness  and 
meaning.  In  'her  denunciations  she  was  absolutely  fierce. 
And,  led  on  by  her  husband,  the  interest  she  took  in  the 
quarrel  grew  daily  wider  and  deeper. 

And  Lucy's  mother  was  appealed  to  for  her  aid.  Could 
it  be  in  her  heart  to  refuse,  or  even  to  be  indifferent,  when 
the  call  was  so  imperative  ?  No  —  no,  indeed.  If  Mrs. 
Bard,  the  elder,  determined  that  her  son  must  be  sus 
tained  through  thick  and  through  thin,  then  why  should 
not  Mrs.  Deacon  Burroughs  come  to  the  same  determina 
tion  respecting  her  daughter  ?  Would  not  the  feeling  of 
pride  require  it  of  her,  if  all  other  motives  and  influences 
failed? 

So  Mrs.  Burroughs  fell  into  the  ranks  of  the  malcon- 
25 


#86  OUR  PARISH. 

tents,  carrying  her  individual  forces  with  her.  And  in  this 
way  the  circle  of  mischief  got  a  good  start,  and  promised 
to  spread  widely  and  rapidly  in  the  usually  calm  surface 
of  the  social  lake  of  our  parish. 

And  if  Mr.  Plimton  was  assailed,  would  his  wife  or 
family  be  any  more  ready  for  beating  a  retreat  than  the 
wife  or  family  of  the  other  party  ?  Not  a  bit  of  that,  in 
deed.  It  is  certainly  due  to  the  character  and  worth  of 
Mrs.  Plimton  to  say.  that  she  was  above  many  of  the  petty 
trickeries  many  angered  and  indignant  people  think  it 
necessary  to  resort  to  on  such  occasions  ;  yet  her  sense  of 
justice  and  of  right  was  no  less  quick  and  keen  than  that 
of  any  other  individual.  It  is  only  natural  to  conclude 
that  Mr.  Plimton  relied  on  the  strongest  supporter  of  his 
cause  in  the  person  of  his  wife,  and  that  in  no  particular 
was  she  found  wanting. 

All  these  things  are  unpleasant  to  tell,  and  so  I  certain 
ly  feel  it  to  be  ;  but  as,  in  the  present  case,  they  happened 
to  be  the  precursors  of  events  far  more  important  than 
could  at  first  have  been  foreseen  by  any  one,  it  comes 
strictly  within  my  duty  to  put  them  down  in  the  order  they 
occurred. 

The  society  held  its  weekly  meetings,  during  the  winter, 
sometimes  in  one  place  and  sometimes  in  another.  But 
whenever  it  was  appointed  at  Mr.  Bard's  house,  Mrs.  Plim 
ton  never  attended ;  and  when  it  came  Mrs.  Plimton's  turn, 
neither  Mrs.  Bard,  nor  Mrs.  Joseph  Bard,  nor  Mrs.  Bur 
roughs  attended.  Now,  a  sewing  society,  in  itself  consid- 


A   LITTLE    CLOUD.  387 

«red,  may  be  a  very  harmless  social  institution ;  and,  on 
the  other  hand,  it  may  be  the  means  of  doing  a  great  deal  of 
social  mischief.  I  incline  to  the  opinion  that  it  would  have 
been  far  better  for  all  interests  concerned  had  the  meet 
ings  of  our  society,  for  that  winter  at  least,  been  abolished. 
Some  considerable  work  was  done ;  but  all  of  it  was  not 
done  with  the  needle.  Much  cutting  out  was  performed ; 
but  not  altogether  of  garments.  And  many  plans  were 
suggested,  and  discussed,  and  here  and  there  adopted ;  but 
they  did  not  entirely  contemplate  the  best  interests  of  the 
parish. 

Mrs.  Bard,  the  elder,  one  day  met  with  Mrs.  Plimton. 
In  villages  generally,  such  a  contact  would  be  set  down  as 
a  matter  quite  of  course.  Indeed,  had  such  a  meeting  not 
occurred  for  a  considerable  time  between  two  neighbors, 
the  wonder  would  then  have  been  the  more  reasonable. 

They  met  on  the  sidewalk. 

Mrs.  Plimton  accosted  Mrs.  Bard,  unwilling  to  forget 
what  she  soberly  felt  her  duty. 

Mrs.  Bard  stared  at  her  very  hard,  but  said  nothing. 

Quite  unconsciously,  as  it  afterwards  seemed  to  her  on 
thinking  it  over,  Mrs.  Plimton  stopped ;  and  Mrs.  Bard 
stopped,  too.  A  secret  power  brought  them  face  to  face. 

Mrs.  Bard,  seeing  what  she  had  really  done,  was  seized 
with  the  impulse  to  begin  what  was  to  be  said  ;  so  she 
opened  with, — 

"  Really,  ma'am,  I  don't  understand  what  this  means." 

Nor  did  the  other  understand  ;  and,  between  them  both, 
the  matter  was  in  a  maze  —  quite  so. 


388  OUR  PARISH. 

"  Did  you  wish  to  say  any  thing  to  me  ? "  questioned 
Mrs.  Bard. 

"  I  am  sure,"  was  the  response,  "  I  was  not  particular  at 
all.  Yes,  it's  quite  cold  to-day ; "  and  she  laughed  just  a 
little,  showing  the  edges  of  her  teeth. 

Ah,  Mrs.  Plimton !  was  that  altogether  the  better  and 
surer  way  of  conciliating  your  old  friend  ?  "Was  there  no 
sweeter  method  than  this  ?  Did  you  in  this  way  design  to 
heap  "  coals  of  fire  "  on  her  head  ? 

"  I  know  it's  cold,"  retorted   Mrs.  Bard,  very  sharply. 

"  You  were  not  at  the  sewing  society  at  my  house  last 
week?" 

"  I  there  !    No.    Why  should  /  be  there,  pray  ?  " 

"  You  are  a  member  still,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  am  a  member  still ;  but  what  of  that  ?  Am  I 
expected  out  on  all  occasions,  and  at  all  places  indiscrimi 
nately,  I  wjsh  to  know  ?  " 

"  O,  no,"  answered  Mrs.  P. ;  "  yet  I  know  how  much 
you  usually  ascribe  to  the  influence  of  example" 

"  So  I  do ;  and  it  is  for  that  very  reason  that  I  was  not 
there.  My  example  kept  away  others,  perhaps ;  at  least, 
I  hope  so." 

"  Mrs.  Joseph  Bard,  perhaps  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Plimton. 

"Yes,  my  son's  wife.  Could  you  expect  her,  Mrs. 
Plimton,  to  go  into  your  house  after— after " 

"  After  what,  pray,  Mrs.  Bard  ?  " 

"  Why,  after  what's  been  said.  Ton  know  as  well  as 
I  do." 


A  LITTLE    CLOUD.  389 

* 

.  Have  /  said  any  thing  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Plimton ! "  exclaimed  the  other,  one  half  astonish 
ment  and  the  other  half  indignation. 

"  Have  I  done  any  thing  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  should  think  you  would  know,  if  any  body  can 
be  expected  to ! " 

"  Will  you  please  to  tell  me  plainly  what,  Mrs.  Bard  ?  " 

"No,  I'm  quite  sure  I  sha'n't !  If  you  haven't  yet  found 
out,  you  must  take  your  leisure  to  do  so.  Really,  this 
I  outdoes  all  that's  been  done  before !  I  never  heard  of  such 
proceedings ! " 

"  Nor  I,"  added  Mrs.  Plimton.  "  I  do  not  know  why 
you  should  see  fit  to  treat  me  as  you  do,  or  speak  of  me 
as  you  do.  I  am  not  aware  of  being  guilty  of  any  act 
particularly  wrong.  If  I  have  been,  of  course  I  am  ready 
at  any  time  and  at  all  times  to  make  reparation." 

"  0,  yes  ;  a  matter  quite  of  course,  ma'am  —  quite  of 
course  !  I  understand  it,  I  think." 

Mrs.  Bard's  tone,  being  in  such  a  style  of  irony,  was 
calculated  of  all  other  things  to  sting  the  other  to  the  quick. 
It  hardly  failed  of  its  proper  effect,  either. 

"  You  seem  to  doubt  my  sincerity,  Mrs.  Bard,"  said  the 
latter.  "  I  am  compelled  to  ask  you  what  you  mean  by  it 
—  what  reason  you  have  for  it  ?  " 

"  O,  nothing  —  nothing  at  all." 

And  she  laughed  still  more  provokingly. 

"  It's  quite  easy  to  provoke  one,  Mrs.  Bard ;  but  do  you 
stop  to  consider  the  difficulty  of  regaining  a  friend  once 
lost  ? " 


IF  *  - 


390  OUR   PARISH. 

"  No,  I  confess  I  do  not  in  all  cases.  Friends  are  put 
at  every  variety  of  value,  you  know.  Some  are  not  worth 
regaining  even  at  the  most  trifling  outlay  of  pains.  Some 
drop  away  without  so  much  as  the  first  thought  of  anxiety 
on  the  part  of  those  who  knew  them." 

Mrs.  Plimton  fixed  her  eyes  steadily  on  the  eyes  of  the 
other.  She  gazed  at  her  as  if  she  were  bent  on  reading 
every  thought  that  passed  ever  so  lightly  through  her 
mind.  It  would  be  difficult  to  attempt  to  describe  or  to 
paint  that  look.  It  could  not  be  done.  It  expressed  what 
pen  cannot  be  supposed  adequately  to  express. 

"  You  are  an  older  person  than  I  am,"  at  length  said 
Mrs.  Plimton,  "  and  should  set  me  better  examples.  If 
your  manner  to  me  at  this  time  is,  in  your  opinion,  wholly 
consistent  with  your  Christian  profession,  Mrs.  Bard,  I 
confess  I  can  entertain  but  a  very  slight  respect  for  that 
profession.  I  have  offered,  as  you  know,  to  set  any  thing 
right  that  through  me  has  gone  wrong.  What  more  can  I 
do  ?  What  more  would  you  have  me  do  ?  " 

"  /  do  not  wish  you  to  do  any  thing,  Mrs.  Plimton,  I 
am  quite  sure.  Why  should  I  ?  It  is  a  matter  of  perfect 
indifference  to  me.  How  can  you  expect  me  to  take  the 
least  interest  in  your  affairs  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  if  you  took  less  interest,  matters  might  nave 
gone  on  a  little  more  smoothly." 

"  Umph !  But  you  must  not  calculate  on  my  indorsing 
all  your  opinions  any  more  than  on  my  taking  an  interest 
in  them.  I  beg  to  be  entirely  excused  from  that  business." 


A   LITTLE    CLOUD.  391 

"  Only  be  sure,  Mrs.  Bard,  that  all  your  persecution,' and 
all  the  persecution  of  your  whole  family,  will  never  be 
sufficient  to  change  my  opinion  of  their  conduct.  That 
will  remain  —  always.  It  is  a  kind  of  conduct  that  would 
scarcely  be  excusable  among  heathen." 

"  Very  fine  talk,  really  —  very  fine  talk !  I  should  be 
glad  to  stop  and  hear  more  of  it,  ma'am ;  but  really  I  feel 
a  little  in  haste.  I  trust  you  will  overlook  the  necessity." 

"  There  are  few  things  you  say  and  do,  nowadays,  that 
I  one  could  overlook,  I  think,  unless  one's  disposition  was 
remarkably  forgiving 

"  As  I  have  no  doubt  you  judge  your  own  to  be." 

"  I  do  not  reply  to  such  remarks  as  that,  Mrs.  Bard. 
They  cannot  reach  me." 

"No,  of  course  not.  Every  thing  is  thrown  away  on 
you  just  now.  Good  day !  I  must  really  be  going." 

Mrs.  Plimton  stood  perfectly  still,  and  looked  in  her  face 
all  the  while.  Some  indescribable  infatuation  seemed  to 
hold  her  there. 

At  last  they  separated.  It  was  a  deeply  unfortunate 
meeting  for  both  of  them  ;  and  not  for  them  alone,  but  for 
those  friends  whose  sympathies  were  so  intimately  inter 
twined  with  theirs,  and  whose  relations  still  spread  again 
I  every  where  over  the  interests  and  happiness  of  the  entire 
village. 

Much  was  talked  about  the  affair,  and  it  gave  cause  for 
a  great  share  of  scandal.  It  would  have  been  very  strange 


392  OUR  PARISH. 

p 
had  it  been  otherwise.     It  would  have  been  stranger  still 

if  this  difference  did  not  quickly  spread,  impressing  into  its 
service  on  either  side  those  whose  habits  had  hitherto  been 
peculiarly  those  of  peace.  This  was  the  legitimate  result 
of  it.  But  that  shall  be  comprised  properly  in  the  follow 
ing  chapter.  • 


CHAPTER    XXXIV. 

DISPUTES  AND  DIFFERENCES. 

THE  next  notable  thing  happened  on  communion  day. 
Mrs.  Bard  would  not  go  to  the  Lord's  table  if  Mrs.  Plim- 
ton  and  her  husband  went. 

Both  of  the  latter  did  go ;  and,  as  a  consequence,  not 
only  Mrs.  Bard,  senior,  but  her  husband,  likewise,  and  Mr. 
Joseph  Bard,  with  his  wife,  staid  away. 

There  could  hot  have  happened  a  more  cruel  thing  for 
the  church.  It  created  a  great  deal  of  remark  and  discus 
sion,  and  that  of  the  most  painful  character.  Religion  was 
scandalized.  It  lost  the  very  purity  that  gives  it  its  secret 
and  all-pervading  power.  Its  profession  now  appeared  to 
unbelievers  to  be  nothing  more  than  a  merely  mechanical 
ceremony,  with  no  life  or  heart  in  it.  It  looked  like  a 
showy  garment,  to  be  worn  only  on  special  occasions  and 
afterwards  thrown  off  as  it  best  suited  the  whim  or  the 
necessity  of  the  wearer. 

People  who  had  hitherto  paid  at  least  a  show  of  outward 
respect  to  its  teachings  now  involuntarily  asked  themselves 

(393) 


894  OUR  PARISH. 

if  it  did  not  claim  more  than  its  desert  —  if  it  were  not 
presumptuous,  and  hollow,  and  artificial.  And  some  who 
had  been  reflecting  soberly  and  seriously  of  their  condition 
of  heart  felt  all  their  progress  towards  the  new  life  sud 
denly  hindered,  and  their  growth  in  grace  chilled  as  by  an 
untimely  frost. 

The  troubles  spread  and  multiplied  abundantly.  Fami 
lies  having  consented  to  take  up  what  were  at  first  only 
individual  differences,  and  to  invest  them  with  an  impor 
tance  they  might  otherwise  never  have  acquired,  they 
wrought  with  a  tremendous  influence  all  over  the  parish, 
trampling  down  every  thing  that  came  in  their  way. 
Troubles  may  generally  be  adjusted  so  long  as  they  arc 
confined  within  tlieir  original  bounds  and  the  real  and  true 
cause  of  them  is  kept  closely  in  sight.  But  the  moment 
other  parties,  entirely  foreign  to  the  quarrel,  are  drawn 
or  enticed  into  the  circle,  the  first  relation  between  the 
aggrieved  ones  is  immediately  changed.  Positions  are 
shifted.  New  questions,  purely  incidental  and  accidental, 
arise.  Fresh  suspicions  are  born.  The  truth  becomes 
colored  and  distorted.  Forgiveness  is  gone.  Charity  dies 
out.  Envyings  and  strifes  crowd  into  the  lists  and  begin 
to  wage  their  cruel  battles.  And  so  finally  all  becomes 
confusion,  that  is  still  more  difficult  to  quiet  than  was  the 
first  difference  itself. 

Enough  of  these  troubles  happen  and  are  still  happen 
ing  every  where  to  give  one  the  exact  import  of  their  char 
acter.  It  is  always  dangerous  to  intermeddle  with  them 


DISPUTES  AND   DIFFERENCES.  395 

when  they  first  begin ;  but  to  try  and  calm  the  storm  after 
it  has  set  in  to  rage  so  wildly  is  worse  than  folly  itself. 
It  must  be  supposed,  if  the  thing  be  attempted,  that  the 
several  parties  are  at  least  charitably  inclined  one  towards 
another,  and  waiting  only  for  an  overture  of  peace  and 
reconciliation ;  but  nothing  is  more  certainly  understood 
than  that  such  an  inclination  is  just  the  last  that  enters  into 
their  sentiments.  Else  would  the  quarrel  cease  of  itself. 

While  the  difficulties  were  in  their  primitive  state,  and 
concerned  only  the  temporary  relations  existing  between 
Mr.  Joseph  Bard  and  Mr.  Plimton,  Mr.  Humphreys  did 
not  deem  it  advisable  or  necessary  to  interpose  his  influ 
ence,  unless,  perhaps,  either  of  them  had  seen  fit  to  appeal 
to  him  for  such  interference.  Sometimes,  as  he  knew  very 
well,  where  persons  are  quietly  left  to  reflect  alone  on  their 
differences,  and  no  words  are  thrown  in  by  another  that 
can  have  the  effect  to  give  undue  importance  to  the  same, 
there  is  greater  room  for  the  feeling  of  charity  and  benev 
olence  to  steal  in.  It  might  have  been  so  in  this  very 
case. 

But  when  others  interested  their  feelings  in  the  quarrel, 
and  fatnilies  spread  rumors  and  reports  without  number ; 
and  the  original  subject  of  the  difference  became  so 
stretched  and  distorted  as  not  to  be  recognized  or  iden 
tified  ;  and  other  interests,  and  questions,  and  disputes  were 
dragged  promiscuously  in,  like  fuel  heaped'  on  a  blazing 
fire  ;  and  other  colorings  were  given  to  matters  than  natu 
rally  belonged  to  them;  and  enemies  on  either  side  em- 


396  OUE  PARISH. 

braced  the  convenient  opportunity  to  hasten  to  a  standard 
newly  raised,  that  recognized  a  battle  they  had  longed  to 
begin  for  years,  —  then  it  is  plain  to  see  that  the  difficulties 
assumed  a  complicated  shape  that  required  a  hand  of  no 
common  skill  to  disentangle  them. 

And  now  that  the  quarrel  had  entered  the  church,  and 
boldly  assailed  Religion  and  her  heavenly-minded  ceremo 
nies,  and  threatened  with  its  devastating  power  to  over 
throw  the  influences  that  grew  out  of  faith,  and  worship, 
and  prayer,  Mr.  Humphreys  felt  himself  loudly  called  on 
as  a  pastor  in  the  church  of  Christ  to  place  himself  in  the 
very  front  of  the  battle,  and  to  wave  back  the  march  of 
the  opposing  parties  with  all  the  force  of  his  delegated 
authority. 

He  was  decided  and  firm  in  this  duty,  yet  none  could 
have  been  more  judicious  and  considerate  in  approaching 
it.  It  was  only  after  repeated  prayer  and  repeated  self- 
communings  that  he  stepped  forward  to  do  what  his  con 
science  plainly  required  of  him.  It  was  not  as  an  arbiter 
between  contending  parties  that  he  began  his  work,  but 
only  as  an  earnest  peacemaker,  advising  them  to  bear  all 
things,  to  suffer  every  earthly  wrong,  to  yield  every  point 
in  dispute,  before  bringing  such  open  reproach  on  the  cause 
of  Christ  and  making  their  religion  only  a  stumbling  block 
for  their  weaker  brethren  and  the  world. 

If  they  felt  themselves  able  to  settle  their  worldly  diffi 
culties  better  than  others  could  do  it  for  them,  then  they 
were  at  perfect  liberty  to  do  so.  No  one  would  hinder 


DISPUTES   AND    DIFFERENCES.  397 

-    •-# 

them ;  at  least,  their  minister  would  not.  But  when  they 
brought  those  differences  within  the  church,  and  offered 
them,  not  for  adjustment  at  all,  but  for  the  sake  of  spread 
ing  their  influence  still  wider,  at  the  very  altar  over  which 
their  pastor  was  set  in  charge,  then  they  took  a  step  he  felt 
bound  by  every  sacred  and  holy  consideration  to  check, 
even  if  by  the  means  he  was  himself  made  finally  a 
sacrifice. 

And  he  took  the  measures  he  thought  best  adapted  to 
the  proper  end  he  had  in  view. 

Firstfhe  called  on  Mr.  Plimton.  It  was  purely  accident 
al  that  he  went  there  first,  for  he  saw  him  first.  'From 
him  he  learned  what  was  his  own  view  of  the  matter,  as 
well  as  his  own  history  of  its  rise,  progress,  and  present 
condition.  He  collected  into  one  consolidated  view  all  his 
feelings  respecting  the  dispute,  trying  fully  and  entirely  to 
understand  the  conditions  on  which  he  would  freely  enter 
on  an  amicable  adjustment. 

It  is  really  due  to  Mr.  Plimton,  too,  to  say  that  he  had 
in  no  wise  been  an  aggressor  in  this  quarrel.  It  was  not 
opened  by  any  instrumentality  of  his.  The  warmer  blood 
of  young  Mr.  Bard  was  what  kindled  the  flame,  and  what 
caused  such  a-great  and  glowing  heat. 

But  on  one  point  Mr.  Plimton  was  firm  and  immovable ; 
he  had  received  the  first  wrong  from  Mr.  Bard,  and  looked 
to  him  for  the  first  apology.  Then  his  way  lay  open  to 
forgiveness  and  forgetfulness  through  all  the  rest  of  the 
matter.  This  was  the  most  Mr,  Humphreys  could  bring 


898  OUR  PARISH. 

him  to  admit.  He  said  if  he  did  more  than  this,  he  could 
not  but  feel  himself  a  hypocrite  j  for  even  if  he  professed 
to  forgive  his  enemy,  yet,  knowing  that  his  charity  was 
received  insultingly,  his  heart  would  not  fail  of  itself  to 
retract  what  his  lips  had  spoken. 

Next  Mr.  Humphreys  called  on  Mr.  Joseph  Bard. 
He  found  him  at  the  store,  and  his  father  was  alone 
with  him. 

The  clergyman  opened  the  subject  frankly  and  fully, 
concealing  nothing,  assuring  them  that  the  affair  had 
reached  a  state  where  his  interference  was  imperatively 
required,  and  in  which  he  should  utterly  fail  of  his  duty  if 
he  neglected  to  put  forth  both  his  counsels  and  his  admo 
nitions  without  further  delay. 

Mr.  Israel  Bard  rather  took  the  subject  out  of  his  son's 
hands,  and  went  on  with  the  conversation  with  Mr.  Hum 
phreys  in  his  stead. 

"  I  hardly  think  your  interference  is  called  for  in  this 
case,  Mr.  Humphreys,"  said  he,  employing  a  highly  con 
strained  tone  of  dignity.  "  Of  course  we  appreciate  the 
spirit  that  actuates  you ;  but  we  must  decline  to  allow  you 
to  enter  into  affairs  of  moment  only  to  ourselves.  "We  do 
not  see  how  they  concern  any  one  else." 

Mr.  Humphreys  was  hardly  expecting  such  a  reply.  He 
stood  a  moment  perfectly  calm  and  thoughtful.  No  further 
word  was  spoken  on  either  side. 

Then  he  remarked,  — 

"If  this  were  but, a  private  difference,  Mr.  Bard,  I 


DISPUTES   AND    DIFFEKENCES. 


should  certainly  hope  and  pray  you  would  be  both  able  and 
ready  to  adjust  it." 

"  Well,  but  what  is  it,  pray,"  interrupted  Mr.  iWd,  "  if 
it  is  not  such  a  difference  ?  " 

Joseph,  his  son,  stood  by,  fully  entering  into  the  spirit 
and  feelings  of  his  father. 

"  It  may  have  been  such  in  the  first  place,"  said  Mr. 
Humphreys  ;  "  but  you  certainly  cannot  say  that  of  it  now. 
It  has  grown  to  be  a  widespread  quarrel.  Though  I  have 
never  presumed  to  interfere  before,  yet  I  confess  that  I 
have  observed  its  progress,  swift  and  rapid,  with  feelings  of 
fear.  It  is  not  what  it  was  at  the  outset.  Circumstances 
have  changed  it.  I  think  you  must  be  willing  to  admit  as 
much  as  that  yourself,  Mr.  Bard." 

"  I  don't  know,"  was  the  slow  and  reluctant  answer. 

"  It  is  plain  enough  to  every  one.  I  say,  Mr.  Bard,  both 
to  yourself  and  your  son,  that,  while  this  was  a  private  dif 
ference,  I  did  not  feel  called  on  to  interpose.  But  now 
that  it  enters  the  church,  and  threatens  to  make  the  havoc 
it  surely  will  if  not  immediately  checked,  I  am  authorized 
to  say  something ;  and  I  have  come  here  to-day,  in  the  best 
of  feelings,  with  the  hope  that  I  may  be  able  to  adjust  what 
goes  so  wrong.  I  want  peace  and  I  want  to  make  peace. 
Nothing  is  more  killing  to  the  cause  of  true  religion  than 
strifes  and  bickerings.  They  should  be  stopped  as  soon 
after  they  are  begun  as  possible.  When,  as  now,  they 
assault  religion,  —  when  they  come  boldly  into  the  church 
where  we  all  worship  Christ,  where  we  pray  for  some  por- 


400  OUR  PARISH. 

tion  of  his  own  spirit  of  humility  and  forbearance,-— 
it  is  necessary  that  he  who  has  been  called  to  minister 
there  should  not  be  wanting  in  the  discharge  of  his 
duty." 

"Well,  Mr.  Humphreys,"  said  Mr.  Bard,  "what  do  you 
conscientiously  consider  to  be  your  duty  in  the  present 
case?" 

"  To  try  and  heal  differences  —  to  exhort  all  parties  to 
apply  a  spirit  of  charity  and  forgiveness." 

Mr.  BarTt  glanced  over  his  spectacles  at  his  son,  and 
smiled  sarcastically. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  will  find  the  task  a  thankless  one," 
said  he. 

"  Still,"  returned  Mr.  Humphreys,  "  it  is  no  less  my  duty 
to  try  and  create  peace.  That  is  as  much  my  duty  as  to 
preach  the  gospel.  It  is  a  part  of  the  gospel.  I  should 
come  short  if  I  shrank  from  this." 

"Well,  how  do  you  suppose  this  reconciliation  can  be 
effected  ?  Of  course  you  have  a  plan  to  propose." 

"  Mr.  Bard,"  answered  he  very  solemnly,  dropping  his 
voice  as  he  spoke,  "you  and  myself  have  certainly  pro 
fessed  to  lead  religious  lives  long  enough  to  know  the  real 
meaning  of  Christian  charity.  I  need  not  explain  to  you 
what  it  means.  If  this  difficulty  or  any  other  difficulty  is 
to  be  settled  peacefully,  it  can  only  be  done  by  closely 
applying  the  Christian  principle  of  forgiveness  to  every 
part  of  it.  Nothing  will  test  the  true  Christian  sooner  than 
this.  His  profession  cannot  come  short  of  the  uttermost 


DISPUTES  AND  DIFFERENCES.          401 

demands  of  this  spirit,  if  it  is  a  profession  that  has  ever 
taken  any  hold  upon  his  heart. 

"  Let  us  go  to  work  now  in  the  right  way.  If  the  first 
step  was  wrong  before,  let  us  at  least  have  it  right  now. 
There  was  haste  then  and  a  lack  of  consideration ;  if  we 
go  to  work  now  with  thoughtful  care,  and,  above  all,  with 
Christian  humility,  I  have  little  doubt  of  accomplishing 
what  I  have  set  before  myself." 

"  I  hardly  think  you  can  make  such  an  impression  as 
you  desire,  Mr.  Humphreys,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Well,"  said  he, "  will  you  frankly  tell  me  just  the  whole 
of  the  difference  between  yourself,  or  between  your  son, 
rather,  and  Mr.  Plimton  ?  Let  us  begin  at  the  beginning." 

Mr.  Bard  glanced  at  his  son.  The  latter  was  watching 
every  expression  of  his  father  with  an  eagle  eye,  and  of 
course  was  now  ready  to  explain  himself  at  the  receipt  of 
this  quick  signal. 

"  I  suppose  I  know  as  much  about  it  myself  as  any  one," 
said  the  younger  man,  speaking  rapidly  and  smartly. 

"  Well,"  repeated  Mr.  Humphreys,  "  what  is  the  whole 
trouble,  then  ?  " 

"  Why,  if  it  can  best  be  taken  care  of  by  the  parties 
most  interested  in  it,  I  do  not  think  it  worth  while  to  go 
into  particulars  at  all.  I  prefer  to  have  nothing  at  all  to 
say  about  it." 

This  was  a  heavy  blow  aimed  at  the  kindness  of  the 
clergyman  certainly. 

"  Bet  that  seems  to  be  only  a  matter  of  opinion,"  said 
26 


402  OUR   PARIS1I. 

Mr.  Humphreys.  "  If  you  will  show  to  me  that  it  will  be 
better  for  yourselves,  and  for  the  Church  and  her  interests, 
or  even  that  it  will  be  as  well,  to  let  the  matter  take  such 
care  of  itself  as  it  may,  or  to  let  it  go  on  as  it  seems  to  be 
going  on  now,  as  to  stop  it  just  where  it  is,  before  the 
mischief  goes  any  farther,  then  you  may  be  sure  that  my 
interest  in  it  shall  be  withdrawn  entirely.  All  I  beg  is  — 
peace.  Only  let  us  have  that,  and  all  will  be  well." 

"  I'm  sure,"  said  Joseph,  "  /  shall  not  hinder." 

"  Very  well,  then.  Now,  why  will  you  not  consent  to 
make  some  proposition  for  an  arrangement.  I  will  will 
ingly  act  in  the  capacity  of  bearer  of  any  messages  you 
may  feel  inclined  to  send  to  Mr.  Plimton.  I  will  consent 
to  do  any  tiring,  if  by  the  means  I  can  be  assured  that 
this  breach  will  be  healed.  Come,  Mr.  Bard,  what  shall 
I  say  from  you  both,  or  from  either  of  you,  to  Mr. 
Plimton?  ^ut  first  I  ought  in  candor  to  tell  you  what 
he  says." 

"  Then  you  have  seen  him,"  said  Mr.  Bard  the  elder. 

"Yes,  only  a  short  time  ago.  I  talked  with  him  on 
nothing  but  this  very  matter." 

Mr.  Bard  and  his  son  exchanged  glances  again. 

"  What  does  he  say  ?  "  asked  Joseph. 

"  That  if  you  are  willing  to  offer  the  first  apology  for  the 
first  wrong,  he  is  ready  to  forgive  and  forget  all  that  has 
happened  since.  That  is  just  what  he  said." 

"  Umph  ! "  ejaculated  the  young  man ;  "  so  I  thought. 
He  expects  me  to  offer  an  apology  to  him !  It  can't  be 


DISPUTES   AND    DIFFERENCES.  403 

done,  Mr.  Humphreys.  I  mean  no  disrespect  to  you,  sir ; 
but  I  say  it  can't  be  done." 

"  I  do  not  know  by  whom  the  first  stone  was  thrown,  I 
am  sure.  It  is  not  for  me  to  inquire.  The  one  whose 
conscience  tells  him  he  is  the  guilty  party  certainly  ought 
not,  if  he  be  a  Christian,  to  refuse  to  make  the  first  admis 
sion.  I  think  that  is  his  absolute  duty." 

"  It  is  not  my  duty,"  said  Joseph. 

"Then  of  course  you  are  not  conscious  of  being  the 
aggressor." 

After  considerably  more  conversation,  which  seemed  to 
amount  to  just  nothing  at  all,  and  to  advance  the  adjust 
ment  quite  as  much,  Mr.  Bard  the  elder  finally  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  any  further  attempts  on  the  part  of 
Mr.  Humphreys  would  be  perfectly  futile,  for  his  own  and 
his  son's  minds  were  made  up  to  submit  to  no  wrong  from 
others  quietly ;  and  that,  if  others  had  once  wronged  them, 
the  only  condition  of  reconciliation  on  their  part  was  full 
and  ample  amends.  He  should  demand  it  —  not  more  in 
this  case  than  in  all  others. 

And  exactly  there  the  matter  rested. 

As  an  umpire,  as  a  peacemaker,  as  a  kind  and  consider 
ate  counsellor  who  had  nothing  at  heart  but  the  happiness 
of  all  parties  and  the  profound  peace  of  his  people,  Mr. 
Humphreys  saw  with  much  sorrow  that  he  was  without 
power  or  influence. 

But  he  was  still  the  pastor  of  his  parish  ;  and  as  one  set 
over  his  flock  to  look  soberly  and  prayerfully  to  it  that  dis- 


404  OUR  PARISH. 

eensions  were  not  quietly  and  without  opposition  allowed 
to  make  head  against  the  welfare  of  those  under  him,  he 
discoursed  pointedly  and  earnestly  from  his  pulpit  on  the 
sinfulness  of  these  practices* and  the  great  evil  done  by 
their  means  to  the  whole  church.  He  cited  the  words  of 
holy  writ,  "  But  woe  to  him  by  whom  offence  cometh," 
and  made  an  application  of  it  to  whomsoever  wrought  mis 
chief  or  practised  malice  and  strife. 

In  all  this  he  did  only  his  duty.  He  would  gladly  have 
done  more  if  more  he  could  have  done ;  but  that  seemed 
impossible.  He  took  the  whole  matter  with  him  to  his 
closet,  and  there  besought  with  much  earnestness  the  aid 
he  needed  in  a  time  like  this.  Again  and  again  he  per 
sonally  appealed  to  the  parties.  Mr.  Plimton  was  fixed  in 
his  determination ;  and  the  Bards  and  all  their  numerous 
friends  were  no  less  firm  in  theirs. 

Poor  man !  how  sadly  he  felt  the  loss  of  Deacon  Bur 
roughs  now  !  The  good  deacon  had  gone  to  his  rest  years 
ago,  bequeathing  to  the  church  the  wealth  of  his  saintly 
example.  He  would  have  been  a  wise  counsellor  for  Mr. 
Humphreys.  But  he  was  gone ;  and,  what  cut  the  cler 
gyman's  heart  still  more  deeply,  Mrs.  Burroughs  had 
enlisted  her  sympathies  so  strongly  for  the  husband  of 
Lucy  that  she  hastily  cut  adrift  from  her  clergyman  en 
tirely,  and  became  one  of  the  earliest  to  accuse  him  of  a 
meddlesome  disposition  in  interesting  himself  in  affairs  that 
could  be  of  no  concern  to  him. 

This  was  the  cry  very  soon  raised  against  Mr.  Hum- 


DISPUTES   AND   DIFFERENCES.  405 

I  phreys ;  and  it  is  true  that  it  came  from  the  Bards.  It  was 
quickly  caught  up  and  echoed  far  and  near.  From  the 

f  objects  against  which  their  maljcious  efforts  were  at  first 
directed,  a  diversion  was  made  upon  their  clergyman.  He 
heard  of  it  all.  He  knew  just  how  the  trouble  grew.  But 
still,  while  he  continually  carried  conciliation  and  kindness 
around  with  him,  he  never  shrank  from  the  more  severe 
duties  his  sacred  calling  imposed  on  him. 

This  was  only  one  of  the  stern  conditions  of  his  ministry. 


CHAPTER  XXXY. 

THE  RESULT  OF  A  QUARREL. 

STILL  spread  the  mischief  daily.  The  little  cloud  was 
fast  becoming  a  great  cloud  —  thick,  black,  and  por 
tentous. 

On  the  side  of  Mr.  Plimton,  as  sympathizers  with  him 
at  least,  were  Doctor  Jennings  and  Mr.  Wilkinson,  and 
many  more  of  the  leading  men  of  the  town,  who  understood 
that  he  was  at  all  times  ready  to  enter  upon  a  reconcilia 
tion  when  Mr.  Bard  should  be  willing  to  make  the  first 
concession,  and  rather  inclined  to  the  opinion  that  the 
Bards  were  obstinate,  and  only  obstinate,  in  their  conduct. 

None  of  the  latter  came  to  the  communion  table,  and 
had  not  for  a  long  time.  The  sermons  of  their  minister  on 
the  subject  of  the  troubles  seemed  to  have  but  incensed 
them  the  more.  They  began  now  to  feel  unquiet  and  re 
bellious  under  his  spiritual  reproof.  Even  Mrs.  Burroughs 
herself,  she  who  had  first  cared  for  their  clergyman  when 
he  came  a  youthful  and  inexperienced  stranger  into  their 
midst,  —  even  she  followed  on  closely  after  the  rest,  and 

(406) 


THE   RESULT    OF   A    QUARREL.  407 

persistently  absented  herself  from  the  table  at  which  were 
monthly  commemorated  the  sufferings  and  sacrifice  of 
our  Lord. 

As  the  matter  grew  broad,  so  it  grew  deep  likewise- 
It  could  not  draw  its  sustenance  from  only  the  surface. 
If  it  lived,  it  must  strike  down  its  roots  deeply,  and  drive 
or  kill  out  other  roots,  and  occupy  the  entire  soil  alone. 
It  was  ravenous,  envious,  grasping,  and  wholly  selfish. 

So,  in  proportion  as  it  spread,  it  awakened  new  feelings 
in  the  breasts  of  our  people.  Hard  feelings  were  quickly 
engendered  where  before  all  had  been  peace.  Even  old 
neighbors  and  close  friends  would  dispute  on  this  matter 
and  separate  in  anger.  And  thus  many  a  strong  bond  of 
friendship  was  melted  instantly  away  in  the  heat  of  this 
white  and  overpowering  flame. 

Women,  who  had  been  in  the  almost  daily  habit  of  visit 
ing  one  another  through  back  yards  and  gardens,  and  chat 
ting  pleasantly  of  the  topics  of  domestic  and  village  interest 
that  might  come  uppermost  in  their  thoughts,  now  shut 
tightly  the  gates  that  divided  their  little  domains,  and  sul 
lenly  refused  to  continue  their  simple  and  sincere  inter 
course. 

The  farmers  who  lived  out  of  the  village  atmosphere, 
and  who  were  not  at  all  tainted  with  the  disease  that 
seemed  therein  to  have  broken  out  and  to  be  at  this  ^ime 
holding  its  high  revel,  were  at  a  perfect  loss  what  to  say,  or 
what  to  do,  or,  in  fact,  to  what  conclusion  to  come.  They 
gathered  together  oftener  in  and  around  the  village  stores ; 


408  OUR   PARISH. 

and  as  the  story  was  told  over  to  them  again  and  again,  and 
one  opinion  was  ventured  after  another,  and  question  upon 
question  was  propounded  and  answered,  the  heat  grew 
steadily  greater,  and  spread  itself  wider,  and  burned  down 
before  its  fierce  blaze  every  fresh  and  good  purpose  that 
could  have  grown  up  in  any  heart  of  the  parish. 

The  factory  people  —  the  owners  of  the  mills  and  their 
many  operatives  —  had  not  as  yet  openly  sided  with  either 
party,  except  so  far  as  at  one  time  to  approve  what  was 
done  just  then  on  one  side,  or  to  condemn  just  as  readily  if 
in  their  opinion  the  same  party*went  wrong.  To  the  gen 
eral  cause  they  did  not  see  fit  to  commit  themselves  at  all. 
Regularly  each  Sunday  they  were  to  be  found  in  their  places 
in  church,  and  quite  as  regularly  they  took  the  liberty  t& 
dispense  their  public  criticisms  both  on  the  minister  and 
his  preaching. 

As  they  had  before  said  of  him,  he  was  not  a  man  at  all 
after  their  tastes.  And  taste  with  them  was  much  more 
than  doctrine,  or  principle,  or  devoted  faithfulness,  either. 
He  was  too  plainspoken  —  quite  too  much  so ;  and  that 
was  hardly  an  evidence  of  refined  breeding !  He  was  alto 
gether  more  vehement  than  a  clergyman  need  be  in  his 
appeals  to  his  congregation,  and  much  too  personal  like 
wise.  He  should  restrain  himself  within  proper  bounds. 
A  well  "  educated "  man  would  certainly  do  so.  There 
was,  therefore,  no  reason  why  he  should  not,  unless  for 
the  single  and  simple  reason  that  he  was  not  a  man  of  edu 
cation. 


THE   RESULT    OP   A    QUARREL.  -409 

They  would  have  him  more  modish  — more  after  certain 
patterns  they  felt  competent  to  supply.  He  should  be 
much  more  "  gentlemanly  "  in  his  pulpit  address ;  and  did 
he  not  take  too  much  pleasure  in  digging  in  his  garden,  ybr 
a  minister  ?  Were  not  white  and  delicate  hands  absolute 
requisites  in  the  character  and  appearance  of  a  clergyman 
—  a  man  who  was  called  on,  too,  to  visit  familiarly  in  every 
family  of  his  parish  ? 

There  was  no  end  to  what  they  would  have  different. 
Their  judgments  were  very  free  indeed  ;  but  the  most  ludi 
crous  part  or  characteristic  of  them  was,  they  criticized  im 
portant  principles  through  the  medium  of  the  most  ridiculous 
trifles.   They  made  up  opinions  of  efficacious  preaching  from 
the  peculiar  attitude  of  the  minister  in  the  pulpit.    Faithful 
ness  they  measured  by  his  gestures.     Unction  was  another 
expression  for  general  manners.     They  charged  him  with 
being  uneducated  because  his  hands  were  not  quite  as  white 
as  they  would  have  been  had  he  raised  fewer  vegetables  for 
his  family  in  his  snug  little  kitchen  garden.     He  was  hard- 
!?y  in  fashion  ;  that  was  the  point,  the  sum  and  substance 
$>f  it  all ;  and  because  he  was  not  in  the  fashion,  —  in  their 
fashion,  —  they  stood  ready  to  offer  him  a  sacrifice  when 
ever  the  exact  time'  of  immolation  might  come. 
jr  And  during  this  time  they  had  closely  watched  all  their 
.  opportunities.     No  occasion  having  hitherto  presented  it- 
jfelf,  they  were  only  patient,  lying  in  wait  for  the  day.     A 
better  man  than  he  they  thought  they  ought  to  have,  and 
they  felt  sure  they  could  have.     As  their  own  success  in 


410  OUR   PARISH. 

business  matters  was  assured  to  them,  and  wealth  began  to 
flow  abundantly  into  their  coffers,  they  naturally  looked 
about  them  with  all  the  empty  vanity  of  mere  worldlings, 
who  measure  happiness  by  yard  sticks  and  bank  bills,  and 
determined  that  "  something  ought  to  be  done."  They 
were  for  having  a  man  who  had  some  "  outside  show " 
to  him. 

This  was  an  element  that  was  introduced  into  our  parish 
the  very  day  the  strangers  moved  in.  I  do  not  by  any 
means  say  it  is  inseparable  from  all  owners  and  builders  of 
mills,  nor  that  all  are  as  empty  in  their  judgments  as  they 
showed  themselves  to  be.  That  does  not  follow  at  all  from 
the  description  I  have  been  giving.  I  am  speaking  of  it 
as  nothing  but  a  fact  in  the  experience  we  were  called  to 
go  through. 

Related  thus  to  the  rest  of  our  people,  having  for  a  long 
time  now  been  steadily  working  their  peculiar  influence 
among  our  number,  infusing  a  spirit  of  dissatisfaction  and 
restlessness  into  our  midst,  the  families  of  Messrs.  Belden 
and  Brown  assumed  to  be  almost  perfect  in  their  guiding 
power,  and  freely  gave  out  what  ought  to  be  done  by  the 
parish.  They  had  much  to  say  of  Mr.  Humphreys  and  of 
his  peculiar  unfitness  for  the  place  he  happened  to  occupy. 
He  might  h#ve  done  very  well  once,  said  they ;  but  he  is; 
really  quite  behind  the  times  now. 

To  say  such  things  had  at  least  the  effect  to  arouse* 
thoughts,  and  fears,  and  suspicions  in  the  breasts  of  the 
more  sincere  and  simple  ones,  such  as  would  otherwise 


THE   RESULT    OF    A    QUARREL.  411 

m 

never  have  entered  there.  In  this  way  they  created  mis 
chief.  Their  influence  was  highly  injurious  to  all  our  in 
terests.  They  might  have  boasted  of  their  importance  to 
the  business  concerns  of  Brookboro' ;  but  old  Brookboro* 
were  a  thousand  times  better  off  without  such  assistance 
than  with  it ;  for  what  were  considerations  of  dollars  and 
cents  merely  by  the  side  of  those  of  united  families,  and 
an  affectionate  people,  and  a  high  and  healthy  religious 
feeling  ? 

So,  seeing  that  their  opportunity  at  last  had  come,  by 
the  means  of  the  wide  breaches  that  were  made  between 
the  different  members,  they  rushed  forward  in  breathless 
haste  to  secure  the  point  they  had  held  f£st  to  so  long. 

They  made  propositions  to  loth  parties  to  the  effect  that 
the  differences  might  in  a  measure  be  reconciled  by  the 
sacrifice  of  the  clergyman  ! 

The  Bards  were  struck  with  its  force.  They  had  not 
soberly  looked  in  this  way  at  the  subject  before.  Really, 
it  was  something  worth  considering.  They  would  turn  it 
over  and  over,  and  see  if  any  good  for  themselves  could  be 
got  out  of  it. 

To  help  on  their  peculiar  view  of  the  new  proposal  was 
the  fact  that  they  had  already  been  compelled  to  give  up 
going  to  church  at  all,  in  consequence  of  the  plain  speech 
and  godly  counsel  of  Mr.  Humphreys.  They  thought  it 
was  all  aimed  at  them  —  none  of  it  against  the  Plimtons 
and  their  sympathizers.  In  truth,  Mr.  Plimton  and  his 
family  still  continued  to  attend  church  regularly  and  to 


412  OUR  PARISH. 

• 

partake  of  the  communion.  And  Mr.  Humphreys  had 
nothing  to  say  against  it.  But  because  they  had  left  the 
church  from  scruples  of  conscience,  (as  they  most  mis 
takenly  persuaded  themselves,)  and  Mr.  Humphreys  plain 
ly  and  boldly,  at  proper  times,  had  rebuked  the  spirit  that 
actuated  the  wrong  movement,  therefore  he  was  arrayed 
against  them! 

It  was  not  so.  He  was  but  trying,  as  he  was  solemnly 
sworn  to  do,  to  crush  out,  with  an  iron  heel  if  need  be,  the 
fell  spirit  of  envy,  and  strife,  and  disunion  that  was  threat 
ening  such  a  total  blight  to  all  their  temporal  and  religious 
interests. 

At  any  rate,  as*things  went,  the  mill  people  were  exceed 
ingly  active  in  their  efforts,  working  night  and  day,  poison 
ing  every  channel  of  communication,  and  leaving  no  single 
stone  unturned.  Already  were  all  the  Bards,  with  their 
numerous  retinue  of  friends,  of  the  opinion  that  Mr.  Hum 
phreys  had  taken  up  weapons  against  them  ;  and,  full  of 
this  fatal  and  unhappy  prejudice,  they  were  quite  pre 
pared  to  receive  as  truth  even  the  most  poisoned  seeds 
of  calumny  and  reproach.  The  whispers  against  him 
and  his  usefulness,  that  would  have  been  laughed  to  scorn 
by  them  but  a  little  time  ago,  were  now  received  with 
the  weight  of  sober  and  serious  evidence,  adduced  only 
after  much  anguish  of  mind  against  their  once-beloved 
pastor. 

It  is  verily  strange  that  the  strength  of  prejudices  is  so 
imposing.  It  baffles  the  most  skilful  analyst  of  mental 


THE  RESULT    OF   A    QUARREL.  413 

mysteries  to  determine  the  secret  and  the  secret  citadel  of 
all  their  strength.  If  it  is  only  true  that  they  are  distorted 
judgments  highly  colored,  why  is  it  not  equally  the  case 
that  reason  itself,  wrapped  about,  as  in  humanity  it  always 
must  be,  with  the  tinted  and  warming  garments  of  the 
feelings,  does  not  wield  a  power  equally  imposing  ?  Why 
are  blind  prejudices  so  much  sooner  followed  as  guides 
than  astute  and  far-seeing  reason? 

Mrs.  Belden  dropped  in  at  Mrs.  Bard's,  and  frankly 
explained  to  her  that,  unless  they  procured  another  and  a 
better  clergyman  in  the  village,  they  were  going  to  procure 
a  subscription  sufficient  to  erect  a  church  by  themselves  ! 

"Why  —  what  was  the  matter  ? 

And  Mrs.  Belden  had  to  go  through  their  old  story  all 
over  again :  the  dissatisfaction  with  the  man  and  with  his 
preaching  ;  his  old-time  style ;  his  obsolete  manners ;  his 
peculiar  plainness  of  speech,  which  she  could  not  for  the 
life  of  her  call  any  thing  but  bluntness ;  his  time  of  active 
service  having  fairly  passed;  and  when  that  was  once 
passed,  other  men  should  be  hunted  up. 

Besides,  —  and  upon  this  point  she  dwelt  earnestly,-— 
there  was  now  an  unhappy  division  in  the  church.  Old 
members  could  not  agree.  It  was  of  no  consequence  at  all 
what  might  have  been  the  original  cause  of  the  trouble ; 
the  minister  had  voluntarily  placed  himself  in  the  breach, 
and  he  ought  to  get  the  fire  from  both  sides  —  yes,  from 
loth  sides.  He  was  hardly  to  be  called  a  peace  maker  — - 
he  had  not  made  peace.  He  had  wrought  nothing  but 


414  OUR   PARISH. 

mischief.  The  old  cause  of  the  quarrel  was  forgotten; 
and  it  would  have  been  forgotten  long  before  it  was  had  he 
not  stepped  in  officiously  to  rake  over  coals  that  had  been 
buried  beneath  the  embers.  He  had  put  himself  in  the 
way  of  adjustment ;  it  was  to  be  expected,  then,  that  others 
would  put  him  out  of  it  just  as  soon  as  they  saw  and  felt 
that  the  power  was  in  their  own  hands. 

She  went  on  still  further :  Mr.  Humphreys  had  nearly 
or  quite  served  out  his  term  of  usefulness.  Little  more 
could  in  the  nature  of  things  be  looked  for  from  him. 
What  good  he  might  have  been  the  means  of  doing  in  his 
day  it  was  not  for  her  to  speak  of.  She  only  considered 
now  the  stumbling  block  he  had  become  finally  to  them  all, 
and  the  cause  of  offence  where  there  need  be  no  offence. 
She  did  not  believe  in  the  pensioning  system,  by  which  a 
clergyman  holds  a  tenure  over  a  parish  because  simply  of 
his  early  services,  and  holds  it  even  after  his  services  have 
ceased  to  be  of  any  use  or  influence.  If  now  this  single 
step  was  taken,  all  would  be  harmony  soon  again.  It  was 
only  he  who  was  keeping  the  people  apart.  It  was  he  who 
was  really  dividing  his  parish.  Once  put  it  out  of  his 
power  to  work  this  continued  mischief,  and  nothing  could 
hinder  a  rapid  fusion  of  the  opposing  elements  and  a  great 
growth  in  prosperity  temporal  and  spiritual. 

In  all  these  views,  though  expressed  in  a  little  different 
style,  Mrs.  Belden  was  supported  by  Mrs.  Brown ;  and  both 
were  in  turn  supported  by  their  husbands  and  by  the  long 
list  of  families  that  were  immediately  dependent  on  them 
for  suort. 


r  * 4 

THE   KESULT    OF   A    QUARREL.  415 

jfc 

It  was  a  long  battle,  and  it  was  obstinately  fought.  Of 
course  the  blindest  party  was  that  which  charged  the  other 
with  following  nothing  but  prejudice,  and  they  could  very 
readily  see  that  they  were  nowise  affected  by  it  themselves. 
Hard  words  were  employed  freely  at  all  times,  but  now 
they  seemed  to  concentrate  upon  their  minister.  He  must 
be  the  sacrifice  offered  for  peace,  if  peace  was  to  be  had. 
It  came  to  be  at  length  common  talk.  The  first  cause  of 
the  trouble  was  lost  sight  of.  Parties  had  changed  their 
positions.  Enmities  were  shifted  and  directed  against  other 
objects.  The  most  bitter  of  the  two  factions  had  volunta 
rily  gone  over  from  its  chosen  ground  and  encamped  on 
one  entirely  different.  Its  opposition  now  was  not  so  much 
against  its  old  foe  as  against  the  minister.  In  him  it  beheld 
a  greater  object  of  hatred.  He  had  openly  sided  with  its 
enemy,  and  so  become  at  once  worse  than  that  enemy  itself 
even  could  have  been. 

The  original  friends  of  Mr.  Plimton,  on  the  other  hand, 
though  decided  in  their  opinion  that  their  minister  had 
done  nothing  but  his  sacred  duty,  were  still  disposed  to 
countenance  the  use  of  almost  any  means  for  healing  the 
difference.  Alas !  poor,  weak  human  nature !  But  so  it 
really  was.  So  sorely  were  their  minds  distracted  with  the 
long-continued  troubles,  they  felt  as  if  they  would  gladly 
give  up  their  pastor  —  long  as  he  had  faithfully  minis 
tered  over  them  and  much  as  they  really  felt  their  hearts 
loved  him  —  if  by  the  sacrifice  their  community  might 
again  be  made  one. 


416  OUR   PARISH. 

And  Mr.  Humphreys  knew  well  enough  of  the  progress 
of  the  matter.  It  could  not  fail  to  reach  his  ears,  the 
whole  of  it.  And  sincere  as  his  efforts  had  ever  been  to 
promote  the  growth  of  grace  among  them  all,  and  earnest 
as  had  been  his  constant  prayers  to  God  to  give  them  a 
right  spirit,  disposed  to  peace  and  charity  one  with  another, 
he  still  felt  that,  if  he  were  really  called  on  at  this  time  to 
make  the  sacrifice,  —  to  tear  out  his  dearest  and  most  pre 
cious  feelings  from  the  soil  where  they  were  so  deeply 
rooted,  —  to  give  up  every  thing  he  held  sacred  in  life, 
every  thing  but  his  final  hope  of  heaven,  for  their  sakes,  — 
he  could  do  it  all  without  a  complaint  or  even  a  repining 
murmur 

He  and  his  devoted  wife  sat  up  late,  one  night,  after  the 
rest  of  the  family  were  buried  in  slumber.  He  had  wished 
for  some  time  to  speak  frankly  to  her  of  the  subject,  but  his 
tenderer  feelings  had  hitherto  prevented  him.  Now,  how 
ever,  he  told  her  the  exact  condition  of  the  parish  and  what 
he  had  almost  come  to  the  conclusion  was  his  duty. 

"  I  think  I  ought  to  ask  for  a  dismissal." 

Caroline's  first  thought  was  of  her  feelings  —  her  tender 
memories,  her  sweet  associations  with  the  spot  he  so  sud 
denly  proposed  leaving.  And  she  expressed  herself  rather 
more  earnestly  than  she  otherwise  might.  Still,  it  was  all 
very  natural. 

"  I  can  do  no  more  good  here,"  said  he.  "  The  whole 
parish  seem  to  be  of  that  opinion.  When  I  first  brought 
you  into  this  quiet  village,  my  dear  wife,  on  that  beautiful 


THE  REStTLT   OF  A   QUARREL.  417 

and  sober  day  in  the  autumn,  I  certainly  thought  I  might 
be  allowed  here  to  spend  my  strength  and  my  days.  Here 
I  hoped,  if  God  were  willing,  that  I  might  raise  up  sincere 
friends  for  the  gospel,  and  friends  to  myself  for  only  the 
gospel's  sake.  My  strength  is  nearly  spent  — *  that  is,  the 
freshness  and  vigor  of  it  are  gone.  I  am  quite  along  in 
life.  But  my  days  may  not  be  suffered  to  stop  here. 
Something  tells  me  plainly  of  what  is  soon  to  come." 

His  wife  expressed  great  surprise ;  and  the  tears  came 
into  her  eyes  as  she  ran  rapidly  over  the  long  past  and 
tried  vainly  to  pierce  the  dark  future. 

"  I  had  hoped,"  he  continued,  "  to  live  to  send  my  oldest 
boy  to  college,  and  fit  him  for  the  calling  that  has  such 
strong  claims  on  him  ;  but  even  that  may  be  denied  me.  I 
cannot  tell.  Let  God  do  every  thing  in  his  wisdom.  It  is 
not  for  us  to  complain.  I  bear  my  own  conscience  abun 
dant  witness  that  I  have  endeavored  to  do  nothing  more 
than  my  duty.  I  find  that  some  think  I  have  done  more 
than  this ;  but  I  am  responsible  to  my  own  conscience, 
which  is  the  only  judgment  seat  within  my  heart.  My 
office  is  no  common  office  ;  and  I  have  labored,  with  God's 
guidance,  to  perform  whatever  appertained  to  it.  I  may 
have  come  short,  but  not  knowingly.' 

"  But  your  going  cannot  reconcile  these  differences," 
remarked  his  wife  thoughtfully. 

"  I  do  not  know  of  a  certainty  that  it  will ;  but  that  is 
the  present  persuasion  of  my  people.  If  now  I  persist  in 
staying,  I  should  be  as  much  guilty  of  standing  in  their 
27 


418  OUR   PARISH. 

light  as  if  they  really  thought  what  they  say  they  do.  No, 
I  cannot  consent  to  become  their  ruin.  I  ought  to  go.  I 
must  go.  All  sides  seem  to  demand  it,  and  I  should  do 
wrong  to  remain  after  my  time  of  usefulness  is  spent.  I 
need  not  mention  the  influences  that  are  made  to  bear  so 
heavily  against  me,  for  that  would  do  no  good.  It  would 
beget  wrong  feelings.  I  only  try  to  bow  in  resignation  to 
my  Father's  will." 

It  was  very  late  when  they  retired  that  night ;  but  they 
had  been  to  the  throne  of  grace  together  for  counsel  in 
difficulties  so  great  as  these. 

A  black  cloud  now  rested  over  the  parsonage.  It  seemed 
to  have  moved  from  the  parish  altogether,  and  settled  itself 
only  there. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

PASTOR    AND    PEOPLE 

ME.  JOSEPH  BARD  heard  every  thing  almost  as  soon 
as  it  was  spoken  —  I  was  going  to  say  as  soon  as  it  was 
thought.  What  Mr.  Humphreys  was  about  concluding  on 
as  his  duty  in  t)iis  sorrowful  crisis  he  by  some  means  man 
aged  to  possess  himself  of. 

The  plan  Mr.  Humphreys  proposed  to  himself  would 
hardly  suit  the  views  of  Mr.  Bard  the  younger.  It  would 
rather  diminish  the  renown  of  the  victory  he  was  hoping  to 
achieve.  So  he  called  one  or  two  others  into  consultation 
with  him.  It  would  not  4p  to  let  the  clergyman  resign ; 
he  must  be  requested  to  do  so  —  as  if  he  were  finally 
driven  away ! 

And  Mr.- Joseph  Bard  drew  up  a  paper,  briefly  rehears 
ing  the  unhappy  difficulties  that  were  distracting  the  parish 
and  laying  the  single  cause  of  their  longer  continuance  at 
the  feet  of  his  minister.  The  document,  therefore,  went 
on  to  say  that  if  Mr.  Humphreys  really  felt  actuated  by 
the  desire  for  peace,  and  with  the  Christian  sDirit  he  had 

(419> 


420  OUR   PARISH. 

so  long  professed,  he  would  not  hesitate  to  make  any  per 
sonal  sacrifice  the  occasion  seemed  to  demand  of  him.  And 
only  as  a  condition  of  peace,  and  simply  as  a  promise  of 
their  future  welfare  as  a  church  and  a  people,  was  it  asked 
respectfully  but  earnestly  of  him  that  he  would  again  resign 
his  pastoral  authority  into  the  hands  from  which  it  had 
been  received. 

Was  ever  a  paper  drawn  more  hypocritically,  the  whole 
tenor  of  young  Mr.  Bard's  conduct  being  understood  ? 
Could  any  thing  be  conceived  more  insulting  to  a  manly 
and  honest  spirit  ?  Could  there  be  said  any  thing  more 
cruel  and  cutting  to  a  faithful  and  self-sacrificing  Chris 
tian's  heart? 

The  young  man  had  too  much  native  shrewdness  —  I 
will  not  give  him  the  credit  of  any  nobler  feeling  or  quality 

—  to  circulate  that  paper  himself;  so  he  put  it  into  other 
hands  and  set  it  going  on  its  rounds. 

If  lie  could  but  forestall  the  purpose  of  Mr.  Humphreys  I 

—  that  was  his  object. 

At  first  it  was  passed  among*  the  Bards  and  the  fricnda 
of  the  Bard  family.  Men  and  women  signed  it  together. 
Then,  as  its  column  of  names  swelled,  it  was  quietly  carried 
to  those  who  had  thrown  their  sympathies  on  the  other 
side,  but  who  were  willing  even  to  sink  those  sympathies 
altogether  if  by  the  means  the  old  quarrel  could  be  adjust 
ed.  And  upon  its  being  strenuously  represented  that  the 
clergyman's  resignation  or  dismissal  was  the  only  condition 
of  a  full  reconciliation  again,  these  men  did  not  hesitate 


PASTOR  AND   PEOPLE.  421 

to  affix  their  names  to  a  request  that  would  lose  them 
a  pastor  with  whom  they  could  conscientiously  find  no 
fault,  and  whom  they  already  loved  as  they  could  hardly 
love  another. 

Mr.  Joseph  Bard  talked  with  Doctor  Jennings  about  it. 

"  I'm  sure,"  said  he,  "  that  no  good  can  come  of  his 
staying  any  longer ;  and  you  and  I  may  not  be  able  to 
compute  the  amount  of  harm.  I  think  it  best  for  the 
entire  parish  that  he  be  very  respectfully  informed  of  the 
present  state  of  feeling.  Of  course  he  will  ask  for  a  dis 
missal  when  he  understands  where  the  only  remaining 
trouble  lies." 

Doctor  Jennings  was  an  old  and  tried  friend  of  Mr.  Hum 
phreys  ;  and  although  he  was  in  a  measure  reconciled  to 
the  loss  with  which  the  parish  was  threatened  in  his  dis 
missal,  provided  that  act  should  certainly  lead  to  lasting 
benefits  hereafter,  still  his  heart  clung  with  its  wonted 
tenacity  to  the  friendship  of  former  days.  He  had  him 
self  engaged  Mr.  Humphreys  to  preach  for  the  people  of 
Brookboro'  when  Mr.  Joseph  Bard  was  yet  a  mere  boy. 

So  for  a  moment  he  looked  steadily  in  the  young  man's 
eyes. 

"  You  talk  fluently  enough  of  it,"  said  he  ;  "  but  do  you 
really  think  you  have  understood  all  this  matter?  Do  you 
candidly  suppose  you  know  what  is  being  done  at  this  very 
moment,  and  through  your  instrumentality  ?  " 

"  If  I  could  respect  Mr.  Humphreys  as  I  once  did," 
was  the  reply,  "  I  am  sure  I  should  be  the  last  to  think 


422  OUR  PARISH. 

thus  of  his  going  away.  But  how  can  I  ?  Just  see  what 
a  condition  we  are  all  in,  and  through  him  !  " 

"  Through  him,  Joseph  Bard  ?  "  said  the  doctor,  kindling. 
"  No ;  it  is  rather  through  you  —  through  only  your  own 
means.  The  truth  shall  not  be  kept  back  about  this  mat 
ter,  especially  if  we  have  to  sacrifice  our  minister.  It  shall 
all  be  told,  cut  as  it  may.** 

The  young  man  was  a  little  disconcerted. 

"  How  do  you  mean  '  through  me  ?  '  "  he  stammered  out. 

"  Why,  don't  you  know  yourself,  without  the  need  of  my 
telling  you,  that  it  was  your  own  silly  quarrel  with  Mr.  Plim- 
ton  —  as  good  a  man  as  Brookboro'  has  got,  too  —  that 
began  this  business  ?  And  what  was  it  all  about  ?  Any 
common  man  would  have  been  willing  to  settle  it  on  any 
terms  rather  than  split  the  church,  destroy  the  entire  peace 
of  the  parish,  and  drive  off  a  minister  that's  been  settled 
here  for  twenty  years  and  upwards !  What  a  wicked 
trifling  it  is  !  No  —  I  see  well  enough  how  it  will  end, 
and  end  speedily.  But  do  not  go  to  work  in  this  way. 
You  will  have  quite  enough  to  regret,  I  can  tell  you,  after 
you  have  lost  Mr.  Humphreys,  without  your  thus  driving 
him  away." 

"  I'm  sure  I  do  not  wish  to  drive  him  off,"  said  he.  "  I 
take  the  ground  that  it  is  only  for  the  benefit  of  the  parish" 

"  Yes  ;  and  now,  what  is  it  that  makes  it  such  a  benefit  ? 
Why,  the  hope  that  after  he  goes  all  troubles  will  disap 
pear  ?  But  what  caused  these  troubles  in  the  first  place  ? 
What  has  kept  them  alive  so  long  ?  Who  is  the  guilty 


PASTOR   AND   PEOPLE.  423 

party  all  through  this  matter  ?  You  know,  Joseph  Bard  ! 
You  need  not  be  told  who  it  was  !  You  certainly  know 
that  your  minister  was  not  the  cause  of  the  trouble." 

"  Really,  Doctor  Jennings,  I  don't  think  I  understand 
you." 

"  Then  it's  because  I  am  not  plain  enough.  Do  you 
wish  me  to  be  more  so  ?  Can  I  be  ?  Do  you  want  me  to 
tell  you  that,  as  soon  as  Mr.  Humphreys  has  gone,  the  par 
ish  will  be  in  a  worse  state  than  .  ever  ?  " 
•  "I  do  not  think  so,  Doctor  Jennings.  I  think  it  will  be 
quite  the  contrary." 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  tell  you,  too,  that  if  he  goes  he 
will  be  driven  away  —  yes,  fairly  driven  away  —  by  the 
foulest  and  most  wicked  means  it  is  possible  to  employ? 
Shall  I  tell  you  that  the  curse  of  Heaven  will  rest  on  a 
people  that  consents  to  so  great  a  wrong  ?  Do  you  wish 
me  to  rehearse  to  you  how  wickedly  he  has  been  dragged 
into  this  miserable  quarrel  by  these  two  parties,  but  by 
yourself  especially,  and  finally  is  made  to  suffer,  the  inno 
cent  for  the  guilty?  Shame  on  such  practices,  Joseph 
Bard!  Shame!  I  never  thought  I  should  live  long 
enough  to  be  a  witness  of  them  in  this  dear  old  town 
of  Brookboro'  !  " 

"  Doctor  Jennings,"  returned  he,  "  you  are  greatly  mis 
taken  in  your  opinion." 

"  In  what  opinion  am  I  mistaken  ?  "  he  quickly  inquired. 
"  I  wish  you  would  tell  me." 

"  That  Mr.  Humphreys  has  been  dragged  into  this  quar- 


I 

424  OtIR  PARISH. 

rel.  He  came  into  it  himself,  voluntarily.  It  is  that  very 
thing  that  I  complain  of;  it  is  that  which  makes  the  mis 
chief.  If  he  had  been  content  to  go  on  and  mind  his  own 
affairs,  I  promise  you  he  would  never  have  heard  of  any 
ill  feeling  towards  him  on  our  part.  He  chose  to  inter 
fere  and  to  take  sides ;  and  this  is  what  comes  of  it." 

"  No  such  thing,  sir  !  —no  such  thing !  You  knoiv  bet 
ter  !  Mr.  Humphreys  never  opened  his  lips  on  one  side  or 
the  other  until  the  trouble  made  itself  felt  in  the  church, 
We  set  him  over  our  church,  expecting  him  to  do  his  duty  ; 
and  he  has  tried  conscientiously  to  do  it.  Whatever  may 
have  been  the  nature  of  his  reflections  while  the  difficulty 
was  confined  to  its  original  limits,  he  never  said  one  word 
of  it  to  any  person  living ;  that  you  well  know.  It  was 
only  when  the  matter  made  such  progress  as  to  force  itself 
on  his  attention  that  he  interfered  at  all.  And  this  is 
what  comes  of  it !  And  even  if  he  does  go,  will  not  the 
questions  still  come  up  all  the  time  before  us,  'Who  is  in 
fault  ?  Who  did  this  mischief  ? '  Of  course  it  will ;  and  I 
cannot  say  that  I  envy  the  conscience  of  the  one  who  must, 
Borne  day  or  another,  feel  himself  convicted  of  all  this 
wrong." 

"  But  this  is  hardly  what  I  accosted  you  for,"  said  Mr. 
Bard. 

"  No,  I  suppose  not,"  quickly  responded  the  doctor. 

"  Will  you  put  your  name  to  this  paper,  as  a  friend  of 
general  peace  ?  " 

"  No,  sir  !  " 


PASTOR  AND   PEOPLE.  425 

And  he  turned  hastily  away  from  the  young  storekeeper, 
and  walked  off  at  a  quick  step  towards  home. 

Mr.  Bard  next  found  himself  in  the  office  of  Mr.  San- 
ger,  the  village  lawyer.  His  name  was  among  the  first 
written  on  the  paper. 

"  Well,"  said  the  lawyer,  eying  his  visitor  rather  satis- 
fiedly,  "  how  does  the  work  get  on  ?  " 

"  O,  nicely  —  nicely,  sir,"  answered  the  other,  taking 
a  chair. 

"  You  think  you  can  forestall  him,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Look  at  my  list  of  names,"  said  Joseph,  producing  the 
paper  on  which  he  relied  to  accomplish  his  end. 

The  lawyer  ran  over  the  names  rapidly,  humming  aloud 
as  he  did  so. 

"  All  very  good,"  said  he ;  "  the  best  people  we've  got. 
I  see  you've  got  pretty  much  all  there  that's  really  neces 
sary.  You  don't  manage  to  get  Doctor  Jennings  yet  ?  " 

The  young  man  half  averted  his  face,  intending  a  ges 
ture  of  contempt. 

"  Doctor  Jennings ! "  sneered  he.  "  "What  influence  can 
he  have  ?  I  would  rather  he  wouldn't  give  his  name." 

"  Then  you  have  asked  him,  have  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  hesitatingly,  "  I  asked  him ;  but  I  never 
expected  to  accomplish  any  thing  by  asking." 

« He  refused,  did  he?" 

"Out  and  out." 

"  Just  like  him  !  Terribly  obstinate,  I  declare !  As  ob 
stinate  a  man  as  we've  got  in  all  the  parish.  But  no 


426  OUK  PAKISH. 

matter.  We're  too  strong  even  for  him.  There  are  all 
the  substantial  people  of  the  village  on  your  list,  I  see ;  and 
that  is  enough." 

"  Yes,  and  all  the  mill  people  besides  —  owners  and 
operatives." 

"  Well,  that  certainly  will  do.  I  have  no  fears  any 
further." 

And  what  —  to  stop  and  ask  one  simple  question  —  was 
the  cause  of  Mr.  Sanger's  prejudice  against  Mr.  Hum 
phreys  ?  %  Why  should  he  sympathize  so  much  more  deeply 
with  the  Bards  and  their  peculiar  interests  than  with  any 
other  party  ? 

It  is  humiliating  to  be  obliged  to  record  such  things 
a'gainst  even  such  a  weakness  as  human  nature.  Mr.  San- 
ger  had  never  forgotten,  and  never  would  forget,  what  he 
considered  Mr.  Humphreys'  unjustifiable  interference  in 
the  matter  of  Mr.  Chauncey,  the  poor  man  who  was  thrown 
into  jail  by  his  instrumentality.  From  that  day  forward 
he  had  hated  the  minister  with  a  mortal  hatred ;  and- 
though  he  suffered  his  real  feelings  to  lie  concealed  be 
neath  the  covering  of  external  respect  for  Mr.  Humphreys, 

4flte- 

he  yet  inwardly  resolved  to-  employ  the  first  opportunity 
that  offered  for  the  complete  gratification  of  his  revenge. 
The  time,  he  thought,  had  finally  come. 

Mr.  Joseph  Bard  and  he  indulged  in  quite  a  protracted 
conversation  on  the  chances  of  success  for  their  plan,  at  the 
end  of  which  they  separated  in  a  full  conviction  and  as 
surance  that  what  they  had  purposed  so  seriously  could  by 
no  accident  miscarry. 


PASTOR   AND    PEOPLE.  427 

The  petition,  or  request,  was  finally  duly  signed.  The 
next  thing  was,  to  get  it  fairly  into  the  hands  of  Mr.  Hum 
phreys. 

Mr.  Bard  thought  of  several  ways ;  but  no  one  of  them 
seemed  altogether  to  suit  him.  At  last  he  struck  upon  the 
design  of  enclosing  it  in  letter  form  and  dropping  it  in  the 
post  office,  which  was  in  his  own  store ! 

So  he  did.  When  Mr.  Humphreys  next  came  in,  there 
fore,  and  called  for  his  mail,  who  but  Mr.  Joseph  Bard's 
own  self  should  hand  him  this  identical  document ! 

Mr.  Humphreys  took  it  and  opened  it  before  him.  The 
young  man  partially  slunk  behind  the  office  boxes,  and  eyed 
the  clergyman  through  the  little  glass  windows.  He  saw 
the  color  rush  into  Mr.  Humphreys'  face,  and  then  as  sud 
denly  leave  it.  The  paleness  terrified  him. 

The  clergyman  saw  at  a  glance  the  tenor  of  the  mis 
sive,  and  involuntarily  threw  a  look  at  Mr.  Bard,  who 
was  still  perched  behind  the  office  boxes.  It  was  a  look 
full  of  sorrow  and  reproach.  Might  it  not  be  pardoned 
to  human  nature  if  it  was  also  a  look  of  profound  and  un 
speakable  disgust  ? 

Immediately  Mr.  Humphreys  left  the  store  for  home. 

Mr.  Joseph  Bard  enjoyed  telling  it  all  over  to  his  wife 
that  evening ;  and  Lucy,  in  turn,  was  too  communicative  to 
keep  it  from  her  mother ;  and  both  Mrs.  Burroughs  and 

Mrs.  Bard  compared  feelings  on  the  subject  to  their  full 

" 
and  complete  satisfaction. 

"  Now  we  shall  see  if  we  can't  have  another  minister  ! " 


428  OUR  PARISH. 

said  Lucy ;  and  her  mother,  and  her  mother-in-law,  and 
all  her  friends  echoed  the  sentiment  —  expression,  tone, 
and  all. 

Until  the  moment  when  Mr.  Humphreys  carefully  read 
the  written  request  of  his  parish  for  his  withdrawal,  signed 
by  one  of  the  church  .deacons,  too,  he  had  been  utterly  ig 
norant  of  so  decided  and  general  a  wish  for  his  dismissal. 
He  had  heard,  to  be  sure,  reports  enough  of  the  great  dis 
satisfaction  of  some  ;  and  he  had  known  that  some  thought 
his  voluntary  withdrawal  the  only  condition  of  a  general 
peace ;  but  never  until  now  had  he  been  willing  to  believe 
that  his  dismissal  was  so  positively  desired,  and  that,  too, 
by  nearly  all  the  members  of  his  parish.  It  was  time  he 
made  up  his  mind  now  at  once. 

He  had  nearly  determined  to  ask  for  a  dismissal  before, 
setting  forth  at  the  same  time  the  circumstances  that  led 
him  to  this  step ;  but  still  he  had  delayed  doing  so.  Now, 
however,  the  affair  assumed  a  different  aspect.  He  was 
especially  requested  to  offer  his  resignation!  There  was 
no  further  alternative  left  him.  He  was  really  forced  to 
do  now  what  he  had  been  prayerfully  hesitating  to  do  for 
so  long! 

O,  it  is  impossible  to  describe  the  anguish  that  rent  his 
soul  as  he  looked  rapidly  back  over  his  past  life  here  in 
Brookboro',  and  reviewed  his  whole  course,  and  then  took 
into  his  thoughts  the  reality  that  was  now  upon  him  !  In- 
gleside  was  truly  a  place  of  mourning ;  not  because  of  the 
trials  that  were  to  come,  for  God  could  abundantly  provide 


PASTOR   AND    PEOPLE.  429 

against  them ;  but  because  of  the  mistaken  perverseness 
of  the  people.  He  loved  this  people,  and  had  loved  them 
for  years.  His  heart  was  entirely  bound  up  in  them  and 
their  highest  welfare.  He  had  striven  for  long  years  to 
make  himself  acceptable  to  them,  and,  above  all,  to  make 
both  them  and  himself  acceptable  with  God.  Yet  he  did 
not  repine ;  it  was  no  part  of  his  duty.  His  path  was 
plain  before  him,  that  he  need  not  hesitate  how  or  where 
to  go  forward. 

Immediately  he  sent  in  his  resignation  to  the  church, 
setting  forth  the  unhappy  causes  that  led  to  it,  and  bewail 
ing  the  calamity  that  was  to  separate  him  from  a  people  he 
had  so  deeply  loved.     The  church  held  an  early  meeting 
and  discussed  freely  the  subject  of  accepting  his  resigna 
tion.     Doctor  Jennings  was  there,  and  had  much  to  say  in 
his  forcible  way  about  the  matter.     He  condemned  the 
'••   whole  quarrel  and  those  who  were  the  guilty  causes  of  it ; 
i   yet  he  would  not  obstinately  persist  in  urging  Mr.  Hum- 
^  phreys  to  stay  if  he  thought  his  usefulness  was  at  an  end. 
The   resignation  was  finally  accepted,  and   Mr.  Hum 
phreys  was  notified  that  his  people  were  ready  to  dissolve 
the  connection  that  had  bound  them  so  long. 


CHAPTER  '  XXXVII. 

THE    FAREWELL    SERMON. 

ON  the  Sunday  afternoon  when  it  was  given  out  that 
Mr.  Humphreys  would  preach  his  "farewell,"  the  little 
meeting  house  was  crowded  with  people. 

It  is  not  necessary  that  I  should  attempt  to  specify  all 
the  peculiar  motives  that  collected  so  many  more  there  than 
usual,  for  that  would  be  apparent  enough  on  the  face  of  it. 
They  were  all  there,  however.  Even  those  who  had  for 
some  time  hitherto  steadily  refused  to  hear  the  gospel 
preached  by  their  faithful  pastor  now  flocked  to  the  church 
to  hear  his  last  words,  as  if  they  enjoyed  their  own  inde 
scribable  and  unenviable  triumph. 

The  Bards  were  out  in  all  their  force.  The  old  family 
seats,  so  'long  vacant,  now  were  filled.  Mr.  Israel  Bard 
and  his  wife,  Mrs.  Joseph  Bard,  her  husband,  and  Mrs. 
Burroughs,  and  all  their  friends  far  and  near,  especially 
they  who  had  shown  themselves  such  during  this  unhappy 
difficulty.  Even  Esquire  Sanger  came  out  to  hear  what 

(430) 


THE    FAREWELL    SERMON.  431 

Mr.  Humphreys  could  have  to  say  for  himself,  as  he  ex 
pressed  it. 

Those  who  truly  loved  their  minister,  whose  hearts  were 

•  altogether  free  from  the  guile  this  quarrel  had  engendered, 
and  who  firmly  believed  that  the  best  and  only  way  to 
unite  the  church  again  was  by  means  of  this  great  sacri 
fice  of  their  pastor,  —  they  were  present  in  large  numbers. 
The  honest,  sincere,  simple  souls,  whom  the  faithful  shep 
herd  had  fed  and  nourished  from  week  to  week  and  from 
year  to  year,  —  they  came  with  sorrowful  feelings,  knowing, 

,    yet  not  able  fully  to  realize,  that  they  were  about  to  under 
go  a  heavy  loss,  and  one  that  might,  in  their  day  at  least,  * 
be  irreparable. 

An  electrical  sensation  continually  passed  through  every 
nature.  All  seemed  to  feel  that  the  occasion  was  one  of 
deep  and  strong  excitement.  During  the  prayer,  which 
was  pronounced  in  the  usually  calm  and  meek  tones  of  the 
clergyman,  this  strange  feeling  began  visibly  to  assert  its 

F    presence.     As  he  appealed  so  earnestly  to  God,  the  Father 

I  of  all,  for  direction  and  guidance  for  this  little  flock  that 
was  so  soon  to  be  without  a  pastor,  his  words  melted  the 
hearts  of  the  truly  devout  and  trustful,  and  tears  ran  plen 
tifully  from  their  eyes.  He  besought  God's  peculiar  bless 
ing  on  the  church  every  where,  and  on  this  little  branch  of 
his  church,  too.  He  committed  them  to  his  fatherly  care, 
that  would  not  willingly  suffer  even  a  single  one  to  go 
astray.  O,  if  Mr.  Humphreys  had  ever  seemed  lacking  in 


432  OUR    PARISH. 

fervor  and  faithfulness  before,  what  must  they  all  have 
thought  of  him  now  ? 

After  the  hymn,  which  sounded  more  solemn  and  sad  to 
his  ears,  and  to  all  ears,  than  hymn  had  sounded  in  that 
little  church  for  years,  he  slowly  and  deliberately  rose  from 
his  seat  and  announced  his  text.  His  face  was  extremely 
pale  and  careworn ;  and  as  his  eyes  dropped  casually  on 
his  family,  gathered  sorrowfully  in  the  ancient  pew  just 
beneath  the  pulpit,  his  very  looks  challenged  the  sym 
pathy  of  those  over  whom  his  words  might  have  had  no 
influence. 

His  text  was  from  the  Second  Epistle  of  Paul  to  the 
Corinthians,  the  sixth  chapter  and  third  verse  —  "  Giving 
no  offence  in  any  thing,  that  the  ministry  be  not  blamed." 

After  rehearsing  the  circumstances  under  which  Paul 
wrote  his  inspired  letters  to  the  Corinthians,  while  yet  they 
were  a  Small  and  feeble  church,  he  proceeded  almost 
immediately  to  make  application  of  the  words  he  had 
quoted  to  the  condition  of  things  in  our  humble  church  at 
Brookboro'. 

I  shall  not  follow  him  through  the  whole  of  his  discourse ; 
that  were  needless.  But  herewith  are  given  a  few  extracts 
from  it,  that  may  be  edifying  to  my  readers  at  large,  even 
if  they  failed  of  their  proper  effect  upon  some  of  those 
who  sat  and  heard  them  on  that  day :  — 

"  Whenever  differences  arise  among  a  people,  they  should 
be  quelled  by  the  earliest  and  most  strenuous  exertions. 
Especially  is  this  true  when  such  differences  begin  between 


THE   FAREWELL    SERMON.  433 

those  of  the  same  religious  household.  Therein  is  the 
world  only  to  know  that  our  walk  is  holy  —  is  entirely 
distinct  from  theirs.  Shall  they  have  it  in  their  mouths 
to  say  of  us  that  we  in  no  wise  differ  from  them  in  our 
practices  ?  Then  what  becomes  of  this  Christian  profes 
sion  of  ours  ?  Of  what  worth  is  our  show  of  faith  except 
as  a  mere  show  —  except  as  a  gloss  for  actions  that  bring 
discredit  and  disgrace  upon  the  sacred  cause  of  Christ  — 
except  as  a  visible  bond  to  hold  partisanship  together,  and 
beget  no  better  fruit  than  hypocrisy  and  deceit  ? 
{•  "  No  man  can  tell  at  the  outset  where  a  little  anger  may 
carry  him.  No  one  can  pretend  accurately  to  foresee  the 
results  to  which  the  malice  that  is  not  crushed  at  once  will 
jnot  lead.  The  human  heart,  prone  to  error  as  it  is  every 
day,  unaided  of  Him  who  is  only  able  to  give  us  strength 
as  we  need,  is  nothing  but  pride  and  folly.  He  who  boasts, 
whether  publicly  or  within  himself,  of  his  own  ability  to 
Sustain  himself,  is  already  an  open  enemy  to  God  and  a 
Downright  foe  to  all  his  fellow-men.  Charity  is  at  the  very 
foundation  of  true  piety,  and  not  more  of  piety  than  of 
those  kind  and  affectionate  sentiments  that  serve  to  hold 
the  social  condition  together.  Charity  endureth  long  — 
suffereth  all  things  —  is  not  puffed  up.  It  is  meekness ; 
and  meekness  is  love.  Unless  the  Christian  possesses  this, 
his  profession  is  vain  and  his  faith  is  empty. 

"  Brethren,  it  is  always  an  easy  thing  to  begin  a  differ 
ence  ;  but  it  is  not  so  easy  to  check  it  where  you  would  be 
glad  to  check  it.     Once  fan  a  flame,  and  you  cannot  tell 
28 


434  OUR   PARISH. 

where  its  ravages  will  stop.  To  commence  a  quarrel, 
whether  upon  trivial  or  important  pretexts,  is  to  be  guilty 
of  that  which  no  man,  especially  no  Christian  man,  would  ( 
venture  upon.  And  if  quarrels  are  to  be  prevented  in 
their  very  beginning,  rather  than  allowed  to  run  on  till 
great  sacrifices  are  required  to  heal  them,  all  bickerings, 
envyings,  strife,  and  malice  must  be  early  and  thoroughly 
eradicated  from  the  heart.  Nothing  short  of  this  will  do. 
All  other  measures  are  vain,  for  they  aim  at  results  that 
are  totally  unattainable  through  these  means, 

"  First  pray  God  that  you  may  have  the  strength  ancT 
the  courage  to  crucify  the  old  Adam,  and  then  hope  for  the 
growth  of  the  new  Spirit.  Until  the  former  is  made  clean  ^ 
and  thoroughly  purged  from  its  corruption,  the  latter  can 
not  see  the  true  life  after  which  it  strives  and  for  which  it 
prays.  There  is  no  fellowship  between  holiness  and  un- 
holiness.  God  and  Mammon  have  ever  been  at  open 
enmity.  You  need  not  try  to  go  through  life  professing 
devotion  to  Heaven,  professing  only  resignation  to  God's 
will,  professing  perfect  obedience  not  only  to  the  letter  but 
likewise  to  the  spirit  of  his  moral  law,  and  still  walking  in 
no  wise  differently  from  those  who  are  not  known  of  God, 
whose  delight  is  solely  in  their  own  inclinations,  passions, 
and  desires.  Be  sure,  be  very  sure,  that  your  sin  will  find 
you  out.  There  is  no  escape  from  a  condemning  con 
science. 

"  If,  my  brethren,  you  have  charity  one  towards  another, 
you  will  have  all  things  else ;  for  without  charity  the  rest 


- 


THE   FABEWELL    SERMON.  435 


are  as  nothing.  You  will  bear  perfect  love  one  towards 
*  another ;  and  '  love  is  the  fulfilling  of  the  law/  You  must 
f  love  each  other  as  you  love  your  own  selves  ;  and  therein 
will  the  law  assert  itself  as  supreme  in  your  natures. 
And  if  there  be  love,  there  can  be  no  contention.  There 
can  then  exist  no  strife.  The  soil  of  the  heart  will  refuse 
to  grow  such  weeds  in  its  bosom,  and  they  cannot  take 
root  nor  thrive.  There  can  live  no  quarrels.  Your  rela 
tions  will  be  those  of  unmixed  happiness  and  peace.  But 
just  so  soon  as  disturbances  arise,  as  they  already  have 
i.  arisen,  know  that  your  profession  is  vain  and  your  faith  is 
vain.  Know  it  from  that  single  thing  alone.  You  are 
not  then  Christians,  even  though  you  may  still  call  your 
selves  so.  You  are  not  then  obeying  the  gospel  of  Christ, 
which  every  where  on  its  illumining  pages  rebukes  you  for 
your  practices.  You  do  disgrace  to  that  gospel,  and  that 
knowingly,  too.  You  invite  the  severest  penalties  of  an 

offended  God,  who  would  not  that  even  the  little  ones 

. 
should  stumble  by  your  means. 

"The  devoted  servant  of  God  should  be  ready  at  all 
times  to  take  up  his  cross  and  follow  patiently  on  after  the 
example  of  his  Lord  Jesus.  He  has  no  right  to  repine  or 
murmur  at  the  hardness  of  his  lot.  Whatever  is  laid  upon 
him  is  for  him  meekly  to  bear.  Only  in  this  way  can  he 
abundantly  certify  the  sincerity  of  his  calling  and  the 
strength  of  his  soul's  great  hope. 

"  Brethren,  let  me  esteem  it  no  light  cross  this  day  laid 
upon  me  that  I  am  now  called  upon  to  offer  you  my  sad 


436  OUJI  PARISH. 

and  most  reluctant  farewell.  It  is  a  sore  affliction  to  iny 
spirit  —  let  me  freely  confess  it  to  you.  My  thoughts  carry 
me  backward  over  the  field  of  an  unbroken  intercourse  of 
a  score  of  years  —  an  intercourse  of  the  most  familiar  and 
endearing  character  and  full  to  crowding  with  its  many 
blessings.  I  feel  that  I  am  taking  my  leave  of  my  own  peo 
ple.  They  are  the  people  whom  I  loved  in  my  youth  with 
all  the  tenderness  and  earnestness  of  my  nature.  They 
took  me  affectionately  by  the  hand  when  I  was  still  young 
in  the  ministry,  and  encouraged  me,  under  God,  to  greater 
efforts  in  his  cause.  They  received  me  and  those  so  dear 
to  me  into  the  open  arms  of  their  love,  where  I  might  feel 
that  I  was  safe  from  the  world's  storms  and  temptations. 
And  now  they  are  about  to  let  me  go  again,  as  if  the  time 
of  my  usefulness  had  expired. 

"  My  dear  friends,  brothers  and  sisters,  I  cannot  thank 
you  sufficiently  for  all  your  kindnesses  to  me.  I  cannot 
find  language  that  shall  convey  to  you  a  tithe  of  the  feel 
ings  that  gratitude  and  affection  stir  so  tumultuously  within 
my  breast.  Let  me  simply  say  from  my  heart,  I  thank 
you.  And  let  me  likewise  implore  the  blessing  of  our  good 
Father  upon  every  one  of  you  and  upon  the  cause  which 
he  has  seen  fit  thus  to  build  up  in  your  midst.  I  cannot 
recall  our  many  delightful  and  endeared  associations.  They 
bring  tears,  blinding  tears,  to  my  eyes,  and  stifle  the  free 
utterance  of  my  tongue.  Let  the  past  live  only  in  memory. 
Let  its  influences  live  perpetually  in  your  conduct.  It 
cannot  wholly  die ;  it  can  never  be  altogether  forgotten. 


THE   FAREWELL    SERMON.  437 

%  ^W 

"  For  many  years  I  have  tried  faithfully  and  with  prayer 
to  perform  my  duty.  God  grant  each  one  of  you  can  say 
the  same.  It  is  a  blessed  thought  that  the  consciousness 
of  duty  performed,  coupled  with  a  never-dying  trust  in 
the  Lord  Jesus,  is  sufficient  to  throw  a  blaze  of  light  into 
the  very  corners  of  our  darkest  afflictions  and  to  cheer 
and  encourage  the  heart  in  its  lowest  deep  of  despond 
ency.  It  is  my  most  earnest  wish,  then,  that  this  conscious 
ness  may  be  fully  experienced  of  each  one  of  us  here 
present. 

"  I  may  have  come  short,  brethren  ;  yet  I  have  so  labored 
that  my  work  might  be  finally  acceptable.  My  standard 
has  at  no  time  been  a  human  standard.  I  have  looked  for 
a  higher  mark,  where  I  found  the  prize  of  my  exalted 
calling.  If  what  I  have  thus  wrought  among  you  has  been 
approved  of  God,  then  have  I  nothing  further  to  answer. 
But  let  my  last  words,  if  these  are  such,  be,  that  not  will 
ingly,  not  knowingly,  not  through  recklessness  have  I  run 
into  error,  but,  if  at  all,  because  of  the  infirmities  of  the 
flesh  which  it  will  require  a  life's  warfare  to  overthrow. 
Let  my  last  words  commend  themselves  to  your  belief 
when  I  solemnly  tell  you  that  I  have  ever  borne  and  still 
bear  only  the  purest  love  for  you  all.  You  every  one  have 
my  blessing.  I  can  leave  you  no  more  save  the  remem 
brance  of  the  faithful  labor  of  a  score  and  more  of  years. 
When  I  go  from  among  you,  I  pray  that  at  least  my  mo- 
fives  be  rightly  interpreted.  I  trust  they  have  been  at  no 
time  other  than  those  of  the  true  Christian  minister.  Even 


438  OUR   PARISH. 

if  you  condemn  me,  do  not,  I  beg  of  you,  utterly  condemn 
them. 

"  The  strength  of  my  days  is  gone.  My  energies  have 
been  freely  and  entirely  employed  in  your  highest  service. 
In  this  world  they  can  never  be  recovered  again.  You 
have  had  their  fruits  entirely  to  yourselves.  If  it  be  so 
that  even  one  single  soul  has  recovered  from  its  blindness 
in  all  this  time  of  my  labor  with  you,  then,  indeed,  is  my 
reward  ample  and  full.  I  ask  no  more  but  to  be  approved 
by  that  humble  soul  when  its  account  is  finally  rendered 
at  the  great  ^day. 

"  Brethren,  I  go  from  you,  and  you  will  see  my  face  no 
more.  Still,  I  shall  ever  bear  about  with  me  my  former 
love  for  you  and  for  your  highest  welfare.  You  will  always 
be  carried  in  my  heart  to  the  throne  where  I  pray  that 
we  may  all  obtain  grace  and  mercy  when  we  most  need 
them.  Remember  me,  remember  mine,  brethren,  in  your 
prayers.  Do  not  fail  to  keep  it  freshly  in  y^our  minds  that 
only  love  can  make  and  keep  you  all  united.  Love  one 
another,  then,  in  all  humility.  Resist  the  devil.  Go  often 
to  your  closets  alone,  and  there  commune  secretly  with 
your  hearts,  and  pray  for  strength  to  the  end.  We  sepa 
rate  now,  but  we  shall  meet  again.  Let  us  so  live  that, 
when  that  solemn  day  of  meeting  comes,  we  may  all  find 
room  in  those  mansions  which  our  Father  has  made  ready 
for  the  blessed." 

When  the  last  sentence  was  spoken  there  was  not  one 

• 


THE  FAREWELL  SERMON.  439 

\ 

in  all  that  congregation  who  did  not  give  free  evidence  of 
his  deep  emotion.  Even  they  who  had  taken  up  arms  so 
.vehemently  against  their  minister  now  felt  melted  by  the 
gracious  syllables  of  love  that  flowed  from  his  lips.  The 
elder  Mr.  Bard  was  affected  to  tears.  His  experience  told 
him  then  what  a  loss  was  that  from  which  all  were  to 
suffer  Mrs.  Burroughs  was  sorely  troubled^and  thought 
of  the  firm  friendship  that  once  existed  between  Mr.  Hum 
phreys  and  her  husband.  Lucy  was  shamed,  so  that  her 
face  seemed  covered  with  confusion.  And  Mr.  Joseph  Bard 
affected  for  a  while  to  face  it  boldly  through  ;  but  even  he 
was  compelled  to  withdraw  his  pretentiousness  into  hum 
bler  quarters.  The  mill  people  were  only  astonished. 

But  if  the  opponents  of  our  good  minister  were  thus 
affected?  how  shall  I  attempt  to  convey  an  idea  of  the  feel 
ing  that  swept  like  a  blowing  wind  through  the  hearts  of 
his  early  and  still  attached  friends  ?  They  wept  tears  such 
as  had  never  flowed  in  that  little  church  fro,m  their  eyes 
before.  Now  and  then  a  half-stifled  sob  of  distress  broke 
from  some  female  lips  that  sent  its  echoes  every  where 
over  the  hushed  congregation.  There  was  hardly  a  dry 
eye  among  them.  Old  Doctor  Jennings  wept  like  a  little 
child.  And  such  examples  were  contagious.  A  stranger 
there  on  that  day  would  have  thought  it  the  most  solemn 
and  affecting  sight  he  had  ever  been  called  to  behold. 

The  day  of  final  separation  arrived.  Mr.  Humphreys 
had  succeeded  through  a  friend  in  procuring  an  academy 


440  OUR   PARISH. 

in  an  adjoining  state,  and  thither  he  was  about  to  betake 
himself.  His  furniture  and  all  his  household  articles  were 
packed  and  sent  on  before  to  the  distant  railroad.  He  and 
his  little  brood  were  to  follow  speedily  after. 

He  went  around  the  parish,  accompanied  by  his  wife,  and 
made  his  farewell  calls.  Many  gathered  at  his  house  to 
take  their  final  leave.  The  rest  he  determined  to  call  on 
himself.  Miss  Buss  had  been  there ;  but  still  he  wanted 
to  walk  with  his  wife  over  to  the  spot  where  he  and  Lucy 
Burroughs  once  walked  on  that  pleasant  afternoon  of  his 
first  summer  in  Brookboro'.  They  went  there  together. 
But  how  different  were  his  feelings  now  from  the  old-time 
memories  ! 

And  such  as  honest  old  Zack  Wheaton  and  his  sisters  he 
did  not  forget,  either ;  nor  good  Mrs.  Margaret  Grey,  long 
bereaved  of  her  charge,  Jessie  Dean ;  nor  Mr.  Chauncey, 
whose  little  flower  died  on  the  night  when  he  was  so  cruelly 
committed  to  prison ;  nor  any  of  that  host  of  poor  and 
humble  souls  whose  love  for  him  was  his  own  exceeding 
great  reward.  They  all  wept  over  him  and  over  his  wife. 
Their  hearts  were  very  sorrowful  at  thinking  of  his  loss ; 
but  they  hoped  God  would  make  it  up  to  him  in  the  next 
world  if  he  did  not  get  his  reward  in  this.  He  went  away 
with  their  blessings.  It  was  all  the  wealth  he  desired  to 
carry. 

They  were  a  sad  group  that  got  into  the  stage,  one 
afternoon,  from  the  piazza  of  Mr.  Thistle's  old  tavern ;  and 
there  were  many  who  stood  weeping  around  them.  Some 


THE  FAREWELL   SERMON.  441 

felt  as  if  the  parish  itself  had  ceased  to  be.  There  were 
few  words  spoken ;  but  those  few,  with  the  looks,  and 
sobs,  and  whispers,  were  volumes  to  the  hearts  of  the 
exiles. 

And  Brookboro'  lost  its  minister ;  and  for  a  long  time 
we  felt  truly  that  we  were  as  sheep  without  a  shepherd 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

DESOLATION. 

INTO  a  lonely  school  room,  whose  echoes  called  up  so 
sadly  his  first  experience  in  teaching,  during  those  early 
years  when  he  studied  for  his  profession  and  when  he* 
learned  to  love  the  simple  beauty  of  her  who  had  now  for 
so  long  been  his  faithful  wife,  he  again  went.  But  it  could 
hardly  be  said  that  he  fell  to  his  new  work  with  any 
bounding  of  his  energies  or  any  exultation  of  his  spirits. 

He  was  not  able,  even  with  the  assistance  of  friends,  to 
secure  a  very  large  number  of  pupils ;  so  he  was  compelled 
to  solicit  a  few  boarders  in  his  family  to  make  up  the  defi 
ciency  in  his  revenue.  They  were  all  pupils,  however, 
whom  he  could  thus  have  under  his  immediate  training 
and  care.  The  village  where  the  academy  was  located 
was  a  very  quiet  spot,  into  which  few  strangers  might  be 
expected  to  come  except  for  the  single  object  of  educating 
themselves.  Mr.  Humphreys  did  not  dare  nor  did  he  wish 
to  lay  down  any  very  extended  plans  for  the  rest  of  his 
life.  All  he  desired  was  to  make  himself  useful  wherever 

(442) 


DESOLATION.  443 

he  might  happen  to  be  called.  He  hoped  to  find  an  ade 
quate  support  for  himself  in  his  calling,  and  tried  to  labor 
assiduously  for  the  improvement  of  those  who  were  com 
mitted  to  his  care. 

But  yet  it  was  quite  easy  to  see  that  there  had  set  in  a 
disease  into  his  heart  that  no  medicine  could  ever  ex 
pect  to  drive  away.  From  the  day  hd  turned  his  back 
sorrowfully  on  the  people  he  loved  so  devotedly  he  was 
in  all  respects  a  changed  man.  He  found  himself  utter 
ly  unable  to  rally  the  strength  of  former  years  for  his 
new  work.  It  was  impossible  for  him  to  excite  and  con 
centrate  his  interest  as  he  felt  he  ought  to  do  on  the  voca 
tion  to  which  he  had  resorted.  The  fire  of  his  younger 
years  was  burned  out. 

Ah,  more  —  more  than  this.     He  was  a  broken-hearted 


man 


Matters  went  on  soberly  with  them  for  some  time.  All 
their  efforts  seemed  but  mechanical,  and  they  could  -not 
help  reproaching  themselves  that  it  was  so.  Yet  they 
could  not  help  it.  The  great  light  and  hope  of  their  life 
was  gone  out.  Their  faith  still  glowed  and  warmed  their 
hearts ;  yet  nothing  could  lift  the  heavy  burden  of  sorrow, 
begot  of  the  ingratitude  of  others,  from  the  poor,  weak 
shoulders  of  humanity.  They  plodded  on  wearily,  looking 
forward  to  little  else  than  their  final  rest.  Each  thought 

—  how  could  they  well  help  it,  with  such  a  severe  lesson  ? 

—  that  his  and  her  part  had  been  quite  performed  —  that 
the  day  of  usefulness  was  finally  over.- 


444  OUB  PABISH. 

Alfred,  the  eldest  boy,  was  placed  soon  in  a  store,  far 
away  from  the  immediate  influence  and  companionship  of 
his  parents,  the  early  project  of  educating  him  at  college 
having  been  abandoned.  The  income  was  not  sufficient  to 
warrant  the  expenditure ;  and  if  it  happened  to  be  just 
now,  it  was  of  a  very  uncertain  and  precarious  nature;  so 
it  would  be  unsafe  to  depend  upon  that.  Alfred  had  been 
a  dutiful  child  always,  and  his  parents  hoped  to  see  him  a 
useful  and  estimable  citizen.  Having  gone  through  just 
the  trying  scene  he  had,  too,  he  felt  an  ambition  stir  within 
his  breast  to  hasten  and  do  for  his  parents  all  that  might 
be  in  his  power  to  do. 

The  other  two  children  still  remained  with  their  parents 
and  attended  schooL  The  hearts  of  Mr.  Humphreys  and 
his  wife  were  bound  up  in  their  welfare,  and  they  labored 
now  only  for  their  ultimate  happiness.  They  had  hardly 
any  thing  more  to  ask  for  themselves  here. 

Mrs.  Humphreys  had  never  murmured  or  repined.  The 
shock  that  she  was  called  to  endure  at  the  period  of  her 
husband's  dismissal  from  BrookbOro*  was  meekly  met,  and 
silently  she  tried  to  bear  her  griefs.  She  even  kept  back 
from  her  husband  the  cause  of  her  sad  feelings,  or  so  much 
as  their  perpetual  presence  in  her  heart  She  thought 
they  would  but  add  to  the  fearful  weight  of  his  own  bur 
den  ;  and  therefore  her  lips  were  sealed  to  even  the  light 
est  whisperings  of  complaint. 

She  bore  on  and  on,  and  all  the  time  silently.  Such 
grief  is  always  the  most  fearful.  It  wears  into  the  heart 


DESOLATION.  445 

steadily,  when  others  see  it  not,  when  even  the  sufferer's 
own  self  may  know  it  not.  It  eats  its  cankerous  way  by 
stealthy  degrees,  deceiving  not  less  the  victim  than  the  be 
holder.  Day  by  day  her  spirits  fell  —  day  by  day  she 
became  weaker.  She  called  in  a  medical  adviser.  Her 
husband  attended  on  her  watchfully  and  anxiously,  vainly 
endeavoring  to  cheer  her  heart,  but  never  alluding  to  the 
real  cause  of  the  trouble.  She  finally  took  to  her  bed, 
and  there  gave  up  entirely  to  her  now  serious  illness. 

For  a  time  the  school  was  broken  up,  and  the  pupils 
went  home.  Mr.  Humphreys  devoted  every  hour  of  his 
waking  moments  to  the  care  of  his  wife.  No  man  could 
be  more  devoted.  He  silently  prayed  for  her  restoration, 
that  she  might  still  live  to  comfort  with  the  rich  blessing  of 
her  love  his  declining  years. 

It  was  an  autumn  afternoon  when  she  requested  that 
her  children  might  be  called  in  to  her  bedside.  Alfred 
had  already  come  home,  hearing  of  his  mother's  protracted 
illness.  Father  and  children  were  around  her,  watching 
her  pallid  countenance  tearfully,  and  hoping  that  she  might 
herself  be  deceived  as  to  her  condition. 

But  no  ;  the  decree  had  long  been  registered. 

She  hoped  she  should  meet  them  all  again,  in  heaven ; 
and  on  the  wings  of  prayer  she  passed  into  eternal  light. 

» 
Sorrows  come  not  singly. 

The  winter  wore  away,  and  Mr.  Humphreys  wore  away 
with  it,  too.  Ere  the  late  snows  had  entirely  sunk  into  the 


446  OUR  PARISH. 


w 


armed  bosom  of  the  pastures  and  hillsides,  and  before 
the  fresh  grass  sprouted  greenly  down  through  the  valleys 
and  along  under  the  walls  and  hedges,  and  the  released 
brooks  burst  away  from  their  icy  fetters  to  sing  and  clap 
their  liquid  palms  through  the  open  meadow  lands,  he  had 
gone  to  lie  down  by  the  side  of  her  he  loved  so  well  in 
the  quiet  village  churchyard,  bequeathing  to  his  sorrowing 
orphans  no  wealth  but  the  wealth  of  a  faithful  example, 
and  beseeching  them  with  all  the  tender  impressiveness  of 
his  dying  words  to  walk  worthy  of  their  calling,  and  look 
forward  in  hope  to  a  final  reunion  at  the  great  day. 

O,  how  desolate  were  those  orphaned  hearts  now,  with 
out  father  or  mother  to  lean  lovingly  upon  —  without  the 
deepest  sympathy  they  needed  so  much  —  without  compass 
or  rudder  to  guide  them  through  the  shocks  of  this  rude 
world  —  young  and  inexperienced,  yet  holding  fast  to  the 
faith  they  had  learned  by  the  example  and  precepts  of 
their  parents! 

God  grant  it  may  carry  them  safely  —  safely  through  ! 

There  were  two  boys.  They  could  at  least  try  and  care 
tenderly  for  their  sister.  And  she,  —  she  must  for  a  time 
go  among  strangers,  who  knew  nothing  of  the  devotion  by 
which  her  own  mother  had  so  long  surrounded  her  every 
step,  almost  her  every  thought.  In  her  little  sable  suit  she 
would  abundantly  challenge  the  sympathies  of  those  who 
knew  her  history ;  but  all  their  sympathies  were  not  a 
single  drop  to  supply  the  deep  waters  of  love  that  constant 
ly  overflowed  from  the  heart  of  a  mother. 


DESOLATION.  447 

Pity  the  orphans!  Yes,  pity  them  indeed.  God  pity 
them ;  for  it  is  only  he  who  can  at  all  help  them.  They 
hunger  for  other  food  than  what  the  world's  mockery 
of  words  can  supply.  They  shut  up  their  hearts  soon 
against  the  influences  of  abiding  affection,  unless  that  affec 
tion  is  miraculously  offered  where  in  human  nature  it  can 
rarely  or  never  be  expected. 

The  family  thus  were  broken  up.  "Wretched  fragments 
were  they  now  of  a  once  happy  and  beautiful  whole ! 

Joseph  Bard,  had  your  obstinacy  any  thing  to  do  in  work 
ing  this  deplorable  result?  —  and  all  within  four  short 
years  of  the  day  when  you  thought  you  had  achieved  a 
noble  victory! 

It  was  after  hearing  of  the  sad  death  of  our  once  faith 
ful  pastor  and  his  wife,  and  after  the  expiration  of  a  very 
protracted  absence  from  quiet  little  Brookboro',  that  I 
again  returned  to  the  village.  Knowing  the  whole  result 
so  well,  and  remembering  so  freshly  the  incidents  that  in 
their  time  had  led  on  to  it  all,  I  confess  it  was  with  a 
stranger  feeling  than  I  ever  had  before  that  I  went  thought 
fully  through  the  place,  reading  every  lesson  that  might  be 
written  in  its  forehead. 

And  these  were  the  records  in  which  those  solemn  les 
sons  were  conveyed  to  my  eyes. 

First  I  called  at  Ingleside  —  at  the  dear  old  parsonage 
where  we  loved  to  gather,  as  if  we  were  all  a  part  of  the 
family  there,  too.  The  house  was  entirely  closed.  The 


448  OUR  PARISH. 

door  was  fastened,  the  windows  were  down,  and  the  blinds 
carefully  secured.  Four  years  gone,  and  still  no  one  living 
here !  It  startled  me. 

It  was  a  sweet  summer's  day,  with  blue  sky  overhead 
and  pleasant  green  every  where  under  foot.  No  time  could 
have  been  chosen,  even  had  I  the  entire  control  of  my  choice, 
on  which  to  walk  about  so  beloved  a  spot ;  and  yet  no  time, 
as  it  seemed,  could  have  forced  on  my  heart  the  feeling  of 
sadness  and  desolation  that  was  begot  of  every  thing  I  saw. 
The  bees  were  making  a  droning  hum  among  the  blossoms 
of  the  creeper  that  still  clung  to  the  house ;  but  the  vine 
wanted  the  careful  training  of  the  hand  that  now  rested 
from  its  work  and  its  device  in  the  grave.  It  had  strag 
gled  about  every  where,  rambling  over  the  seats  on  either 
side  of  the  little  porch,  and  staining  the  floor  with  its 
crushed  blossoms  and  decaying  leaves.  The  grass  edged 
along  from  its  plat,  and  crowded  on  the  flower  beds  and 
over  the  front  walk.  The  plum  and  pear  trees  looked 
ragged,  calling  for  the  blade  of  the  pruning  knife  or  the 
jagged  teeth  of  the  saw. 

But  the  house  itself,  thus  shut  up  alone,  with  no  living 
being  to  start  a  voice  in  its  parlors  or  to  waken  an  echo  in 
its  chambers,  dismal  and  darkened,  standing  away  from 
other  houses,  as  if  it  could  hardly  keep  congenial  fellow 
ship  with  them,  —  it  was  this  that  so  deeply  impressed  me. 
Here  had  been  born  hopes  such  as  would  blossom  only  in 
heaven.  Here  had  fervent  prayers  gone  up,  as  sacred  in 
cense  from  a  family  altar,  for  the  well  being  of  the  parish 


DESOLATION.  449 

t  *        '  Klft    $* 

and  the  eternal  welfare  of  souls.  Saintly  examples  were 
here  set,  the  which,  if  only  the  rest  should  faithfully  copy 
them,  would  make  the  whole  town  round  about  rich  beyond 
compute  in  love  and  harmony. 

O,  how  could  I  keep  back  the  blinding  tears  —  how  could 

£ ' 
I  stifle  the  reproachful  regrets  —  how  could  I  help  giving 

way  to  all  the  sad  and  bitter  thoughts  that  poured  through 
my  brain  while  on  that  beautiful  day  in  summer  I  stood 
alone  and  reviewed  it  all  —  the  past,  that  could  never, 
never  come  back  again! 

I  wandered  through  the  village  street,  intending  to  walk 
onward  to  the  mills.    It  was  with  no  small  degree  of  fore 
boding  that  I  saw  the  deserted  condition  of  things.     Few 
fe   persons  met  me  on  my  way,  and  those  few  looked  more  as 
if  they  were  lost  than  pursuing  any  definite  purpose. 

At  length  I  reached  the  mills. 

My  hands  involuntarily  lifted  themselves,  as  a  silent 
exclamation  of  surprise,  when  my  eyes  took  in  the  whole 
picture. 

There  stood  the  huge  stone  mill,  to  be  sure ;  but  how  vast 
ly  changed !  It  seemed  as  if  the  smutty  workers  for  Vul 
can,  the  ancient  Cyclops  themselves,  had  converted  it  into 
a  dwelling.  The  roof  -was  gone  —  the  chimneys  had 
fallen  —  the  windows  were  all  out.  There  were  no  doors 
to  shut  out  intruders  or  idlers ;  and  black,  pitchy  black 
stains,  large  and  broad,  covered  the  stone  walls  in  great 
patches  near  every  window. 

The  mill  had  been  burned  ! 
29 


450  OUR   PARISH. 

I  came  nearer  and  viewed  the  desolation.  I  looked 
round  upon  the  late  owners'  houses.  They  were  all  de 
serted.  There  was  nothing  but  silence  brooding  about 
them.  The  vast  masses  of  ruined  machinery  lay  piled  on 
the  ground,  having  fallen  through  the  burned  floors,  and 
there  presented  a  terrible  wreck.  The  noble  stone  mill 
itself,  with  its  huge  and  high  walls,  stood  out  against  the 
blue  sky  of  summer  in.  bold  relief,  blackened  and  be 
grimed  —  a  lasting  monument  to  the  genius  and  power  of 
devastation. 

I  afterwards  learned  that  the  mill  company  had  been 
ruined  by  the  fire,  and  were  compelled  to  evacuate  the 
premises  occupied  by  them.  They  scattered  in  all  direc 
tions,  —  owners,  managers,  and  operatives,  —  bringing  down 
a  loud  cry  from  all  sides  about  their  heads.  There  was  not 
living  at  this  time  four  families  in  all  the  houses  that  were 
sprinkled  along  between  that  spot  and  the  village  street. 

I  climbed  musingly  about  over  the  ruins,  leaping  from  rock 
to  rock  and  stone  to  stone,  the  whole  picture  stretching  fore 
bodingly  out  before  me,  when  I  finally  found  myself  by  the 
brink  of  my  favorite  little  river.  It  really  seemed  to  me 
to  be  never  so  glad,  never  so  full  of  joy,  as  if  it  were  spite 
fully  laughing  at  the  wonderful  destruction  that  had  been 
wrought,  and  determined  to  assert  nothing  but  its  own  frol 
icsome  supremacy  again.  To  be  sure,  the  great  dam  ob 
structed  its  movements  ;  but  then  it  did  not  work  —  it 
would  not  work ;  it  would  only  leap,  and  laugh,  and  sing, 
swimming  down  under  the  shadows  of  the  overhanging 


DESOLATION.  451 

trees,  or  dashing  and  flashing  among  the  rocks  it  whitened 
with  its  silvery  froth  and  foam. 

The  little  river  was  the  only  thing  that  seemed  glad  to 
see  me ;  that  heartily  welcomed  me  back  to  the  pleasant 
old  haunts  again. 

Inquiries  through  the  village  afterwards,  united  to  what 
I  was  in  'the  way  for  observing  myself,  told  me  of  the  fail 
ure  of  Mr.  Joseph  Bard  in  business,  he  having  incautious 
ly  risked  a  large  amount  upon  the  mills  that  were  de 
stroyed.  It  had  all  gone ;  and  he  went  with  it,  too.  His 
father,  out  of  his  whole  property,  had  managed  to  save  his 
farm ;  and  upon  this  he  and  Lucy  worked  hard,  earning 
their  bread  literally  by  the  sweat  of  their  brows. 

Doctor  Jennings  was  there ;  but  he  was  getting  old  very 
fast,  and  never  ceased  to  bewail  the  irreparable  loss  from 
which  the  parish  and  the  town  suffered  in  the  dismissal  of 
Mr.  Humphreys.  The  opposition  fully  agreed  with  him  in 
opinion  ;  but  they  said  nothing.  It  was  their  punishment, 
that,  while  they  suffered,  shame  itself  compelled  them  to 
suffer  in  silence,  and  so  all  the  more  keenly. 

The  village  seemed  entirely  dead.  There  was  no  inter 
est,  no  life,  any  where.  If  men  happened  now  and  then  to 
fall  in  with  one  another  as  they  lounged  lazily  along  the 
street,  it  was  but  to  pick  up  a  stray  chip,  whittle  it  to 
shavings,  and  pass  silently  on. 

There  was  only  irregular  preaching  in  the  meeting 
house,  and  the  flock  of  humble  souls  went  unfed.  Occa- 


452  OUR   PARISH. 


sionally  a  travelling  clergyman  consented  to  stay  with  them 
over  Sunday ;  but  no  one  had  ever  yet,  since  Mr.  Hum 
phreys'  day,  accepted  a  "  call "  there,  and  it  looked  now 
quite  unlikely  that  for  some  time  any  one  would.  The 
history  of  the  parish  was  a  standing  reproach  unto  itself 
the  country  round.  Religious  interest  had  subsided,  or 
had  died  out  entirely.  Nettle  weeds  sprang  up  and  choked 
the  growth  of  the  good  seed.  The  fathers,  of  a  truth,  had 
eaten  sour  grapes,  and  the  children's  teeth  were  set  on 
edge.  I  could  not  help  repeating  aloud  to  myself  the  lines 
from  Goldsmith's  Deserted  Village  as  I  wandered  around 
the  place :  — 

"  Here,  as  I  take  my  solitary  rounds, 
Amid  these  tangling  walks  and  ruined  grounds, 
And,  many  a  year  elapsed,  return  to  view 
Where  once  the  cottage  stood,  the  hawthorn  grew, 
Remembrance  wakes  with  all  her  busy  train, 
Swells  at  my  breast,  and  turns  the  past  to  pain !  " 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


RENEWED  BOOKS  ARE  SUBJECT  TO  IMMEDIATE 
RECALL 


LIBRARY,  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  DAVIS 

Book  Slip-50m-8,'66(G5530s4)458 


N°  454682 

PS 1929 

Hill,  G.C.  H62 

Our  Parish.  09 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


